tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86767194600195627002024-03-05T00:17:25.183-05:00The Look Backit isn't a spaceship, it's a time machineMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-68100895791125231522014-03-24T16:23:00.000-04:002014-03-24T16:23:00.128-04:00Adios, Everybody!If you're reading this, then my blog has gone into hibernation mode. There have been 10 months of my writings from PhGeek.com--a website whose plug was unceremoniously pulled out of the blue. That I was able to save my writing--and share it here--has been a joy.<br />
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Adios!</div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-65651808969229342942014-03-18T15:55:00.000-04:002014-03-18T15:55:00.443-04:00President Strangelove<div style="font-family: inherit;">
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<span style="font-size: 26pt;"><b><u>PRESIDENT STRANGELOVE:</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b><u>or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bushes</u></b></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I von an Oscars 2003. You party vit me?</td></tr>
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It was 19 March, 2003, and I had traveled to Los <span class="Apple-style-span">Angeles, where, being concerned about such things, the townspeople were abuzz at the prospect of having the Oscars cancelled; secondary was their concern about the forthcoming, doubtless very brief occupation of Iraq, for being a place whose more-than-occasional bread and butter was made by sequels, Gulf 2 promised all the same quick mechanized victories as the first, but given the advances in technology, the cinema haute couture recognized this skirmish to be more of a television production (indeed, one wonders if this is the quickly marketed response to Waugh’s comment that he does “not expect to see many travel books in the future,” (qtd in Fussell 215). Throughout the day, concerns continued at the frightening prospect that Mr. Bush’s war would prevent the Academy (here used to refer to the film league rather than the higher Academy explored soon enough in this essay) from giving out awards. (Incidentally, they were not prevented; the dead Conrad L. Hall, the rapper Eminem, and the convicted statutory rapist Roman Polanski all won, though none were present at the ceremony.) Yet as day turned to night over the Pacific, and as the first wartime night in a decade settled over the Atlantic and Potomac, the President spoke to the nation. I turned to my traveling companion and smugly said, “Here’s the start of the Bush 2004 Presidential Campaign,” and, alas, I meant it! Such was my ignorance, an ignorance which has been so rightly fixed by the perspective of those who have traveled more and written better than the meager offerings of this writer, for by exploring the conventions used by the giants who have come before me, I have been able to understand how they achieve their pursuits of clarity, of vision, and of the honest truth of Mr. Bush’s war.</span></div>
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It was with Byron that I realized the great truth of what Hollywood types may have called Gulf 2 but I prefer to call The Great and Holy War Against the Aggressors Who Perpetrate General Evils (though I shall henceforth refer to it as Mr. Bush’s war, for the sake of maximizing these few pages with literary reflections). Byron saw that the first notable feature of Iraq was “the Mosul pipe-line,” followed most secondarily by a Baghdad which he described as “desolation increased” (46). Byron further explains that it was “little solace to recall that Mesopotamia was <i>once</i> so rich, so fertile of art and invention, so hospitable,” and that the entire <u>region</u> has had but one “prime fact,” and that from the thirteenth century when irrigation systems were destroyed, “and that from that day to this Mesopotamia has remained a land of mud” (46). How silly I was to doubt our appointed leader, for Byron’s frank talk about this insignificant place, with its “mud-coloured” people who wear “mud-coloured” clothes topped off by a “national hat [that] is nothing more than a formalised mud-pie” (sic, 26) shows to me how right and just we of peach-colored skin (or, perhaps in the case of our British allies, snow-colored skin?) were to brandish flags over statues and claim the land for ourselves. (Indeed, had one thought that <i>Byron</i> hated the place by using the word “mud” nine times in a single paragraph, then we should be very grateful that Iran was designated as a member of the catchily-named <span style="font-size: 16pt;">Axis of Evil</span>, for his traveling companion Christopher called Iraq “a paradise compared with Teheran.” (47) With such words one certainly can hope that Mr. Bush’s war can become a global venture. </div>
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Surely, those inclined to say their nays will cry out such vague arguments as “But Iraq had no connection to the 9/11 attacks!” or “Were there not intelligence lapses concerning the existence of weapons of mass destruction in the country?” I am of course reminded of the subtitle of the Twain book here explored, which is “The New <u>Pilgrims</u>’ Progress” (emphasis mine). Surely those filled with piety and having lived lives of virtue are best set to become the newest pilgrims, and Mr. Bush highlights this fact. Now, naturally, the existence of a few paltry sums of oil do sweeten the deal, but this is a war of enlightenment. Twain noted that “the Koran does not permit Mohammedans to drink” but that “their natural instincts do not permit them to be moral” (368). Perhaps this is owed to some sort of geographic flaw, for Twain too comments on “the God-forsaken barrenness and desolation” (455) and “leagues of blighted, blasted, sandy, rocky, sun-burnt, ugly, dreary, infamous country” (456) whilst in the region. Indeed, the verbiage that this master author implies, certainly, that the territory is so in need of metaphorical white picket fences and curtains in the windows that he can but muster rather clunky language. Language indeed, for he finds himself frustrated at one point that his guide cannot stomach the “unspeakable humiliation” (381) at being renamed, as all guides on Twain’s journey are, Ferguson. (One is of course reminded of the impartial need by stabilizing forces in the American frontier to take Native American children, ship them from their ancestral lands, and send them to English-only schools in a modestly successful attempt to purge from them their wicked heathen ways.) Twain punctuates his point by noting that such renaming “can not be helped. All guides are Fergusons to us. We can not master their <i>dreadful</i> <i>foreign</i> names” (sic, emphasis mine, 381). Dreadful indeed, for who among us longs not for the day when the weary names which so confuse us can be replaced; who among us does not look eagerly for the day when the far-flung corners have such easy and convenient names like Georgetown, or Donaldsville, or Arbusto? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arbusto! Whats that mean in English?</td></tr>
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Indeed, Swift too sees so clearly the natural state of things in the grand alliance with the British who have been so kind as to help here and there in Mr. Bush’s war. Was it not Swift, who in his wonderful metaphor, described those whom might fall under the helpful thumb of the Empire, as “human Creature[‘s] not six Inches high, with a Bow and Arrow in his Hands, and a Quiver at his back?” (5<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=3589855976420910172#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">*</span></a>) Indeed, does not his Gulliver first gaze upon the fertile and quaint land of Lilliput and describe its cuteness for a quite short paragraph, then feel the press “by the Necessities of Nature” and then discharge his “Body of that uneasy Load?” (6) I must stress that I do not mention Gulliver’s movements in order to be cheeky; rather, that in the ways of war I merely mean to point out that Swift recognizes, as do our leaders, that sometimes one must get one’s hands dirty. But such is the way of spreading enlightenment; indeed, we are reminded that all are naturally inclined to be shown the way, for already in Lilliput “the Learned among them confess the Absurdity of [their burial] Doctrine; but the Practice continues, in Compliance to the Vulgar” (36). The lesson taken is that the process has already started; we simply are speeding the process up, as one might use and need oil to lubricate a squeaky wheel. But who can best do this? Ah, once again, Swift’s glorious words provide us the right light. This member of the British Isles casts his gaze to a “course [that is] East North-east” (60) and his metaphor becomes an America whose power compared to our wee British friends is like that of a man “as Tall as an ordinary Spire-steeple” who takes “about ten Yards at every Stride” (61) compared with a normal man. (How right indeed Mr. Bush’s war must be when one views Swift’s metaphor as some sort of Christian Paul Bunyan!) </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Together... forever!</td></tr>
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Given the obviousness to Swift of this partnership which, of late, has so helped to reshape lands in our Anglo-American (but, naturally, mostly American) image, one cannot help but be relieved that travel literature makes so clear the case for what can complimentarily be called recent Yankee imperialism. Fussell seems to chunner and chunter a bit, saying that after the Great War “the British did awake… to a different world, one in which the idea of literary traveling must seem quaint and a book [or essay?] about it a kind of elegy” (227). Perhaps such was the case many years ago, but how lucky we are, as thinkers, as writers, and as Americans, to have been given such a wonderful opportunity by Mr. Bush to travel of late—and to share it with our Anglo friends! Indeed, all the authors that have been explored in this modest essay have shown me the ill of my ways, that the notion of dogged determination to reconstruct crude, backwards lands is not new. I am struck, in fact, at a bit of a metaphor of my own: just as America is the more powerful child of its British parent, just as America is the rough-and-ready cowboy to the British sense of reserved elitism, and just as America is the younger, and more successful product of the traditions and ways of the British Empire, so too is the happy, smiling partnership between what those in the know refer to as Forty-Three and Forty-One, or the junior and senior Bushes. Indeed, in summation I must reflect on the just ways in which the words of the authors quoted above have so improved my perspective. Believing, as I once did, that there was no precedence, or justice, or explanation for Mr. Bush’s war, I see now that Byron and Twain and Swift and Fussell knew, each in his own time, that there is precedence and justice and explanation. In closing, how grateful I am to them for fixing my view from someone who was once left lost, but now is quite right. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Works Cited</span></div>
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Byron, Robert. <u>The Road to Oxiana</u>. New York: Oxford UP, 1982.</div>
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Fussell, Paul. <u>Abroad: British Literary Traveling Between the Wars</u>. New York: </div>
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Oxford UP, 1980.</div>
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Swift, Jonathan. <u>Gulliver’s Travels and Other Writings</u>. Random House, 1958.</div>
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Twain, Mark. <u>Innocents Abroad: The New Pilgrim’s Progress</u>. Hartford, CT: </div>
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American Publishing, 1869. Digital Edition. Scituate, MA: Digital </div>
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Scanning, 2001.</div>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-7701685633041855922014-03-10T16:22:00.000-04:002014-03-10T16:22:01.402-04:00The Shadow, a Superzero<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefA2ym2YdazTxjkvN2w1mbmTN62SDei_rA4J1rHHIcEUUSEpOASsw7mmovjAWe5K2WBAo8ci_KBffnEWGDNa49slCiLqDalSHvXRMsdGro7caUHe9UUHde8qwKA5PKJiYyoZG0Wmxino/s1600/The+Shadow+-+Crime+does+not+pay+Matchbook+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefA2ym2YdazTxjkvN2w1mbmTN62SDei_rA4J1rHHIcEUUSEpOASsw7mmovjAWe5K2WBAo8ci_KBffnEWGDNa49slCiLqDalSHvXRMsdGro7caUHe9UUHde8qwKA5PKJiYyoZG0Wmxino/s320/The+Shadow+-+Crime+does+not+pay+Matchbook+1.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pop-up matchbook. Wild.</td></tr>
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The man with mystical powers to make himself unseen, able to see into the hearts of men and darkly do good in the spiraling world of the 1930s: its quite a concept. <br />
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How apropos that our question-creating machine spit this one forth today, replete with the picture of 1994's <i>The Shadow</i>. <u>This</u> was a movie that I drooled over ahead of its release; I had the teaser poster, with its "who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men" poster on my wall; I savored every tv commercial for it (including a great one that I remember running during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M.A.N.T.I.S."><i>M.A.N.T.I.S</i> </a>pilot).<br />
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Why was I so eager to see this movie? In the year previous, I had discovered old time radio shows (then available on cassette tape by a few vendors). <i>The Shadow</i> in its original radio form was a bit crude, as it was produced in the mid 1930s; the golden age for radio production being, in my estimation, from 1945 until the end of the 1950s. Nonetheless, it was enjoyable, with a pre-<i>Citizen Kane</i> Orson Welles and Agnes Moorehead and the strange, almost otherworldly commercials for Blue Coal. <br />
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I distinctly remember seeing the Alec Baldwin starrer with my brother and uncle, in a theater which is now an IHOP. It had the pedigree of a winner: July 1 release, ample marketing campaign, Alec Baldwin 4 years removed from <i>Red October</i> and two years removed from <i>Glengarry Glen Ross</i>, a Jerry Goldsmith score, and supporting roles filled by Jonathan Winters, Peter Boyle, and Tim Curry. Oh, and did I mention that Ian freakin McKellan is in it too? All of that mixed with the luxurious production design and Russell Mulcahy's impressive action resume and care for a throwback, 1930s sensibility was sure to make this film a winner.<br />
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But.... <br />
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You know that sinking feeling that you can get watching a movie when you see that it simply is not working? The one that is a result of a fundamental lack of the parts jelling? That was watching <i>The Shadow</i>. <br />
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It starts with a mumbo-jumbo backstory of Baldwin's Lamont Cranston in Tibet, where he learns to cloud men's minds. So where does the bad guy come from? The same school of thought-blocking, of course. And its with that baddie, Shiwan Khan, that the movie creaks with its "Ah-so, meeestah Shahdow-san" use of an Asian baddie. The Peter Boyle character, a cabbie named Moe Shrevnitz added to the radio series later in the run, feels shoe-horned in and the Jerry Goldsmith score quickly turns "craaaaazy' with its ethereal, zither-esque motif. The production design falters under its own weight, turning from epic to feeling patently inauthentic--like they've updated the storefronts on the Universal backlot. Fun fact: they did. I also remember being very struck that the Shadow seems to be connected to everyone, in party by a system pneumatic tubes by which he can communicate with his agents. It's almost a metaphor for the film: large, but not quite logical.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's like a bat... man.</td></tr>
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So what was the impact of <i>The Shadow</i> on geek culture? I'd say for one it set back the cause of that sort of film. It <i>desperately</i> wanted to be the next Batman franchise. Look at the fingerprints: 1930s property that has been dormant; charismatic playboy by day, masked dark hero by night; lead actor played by the comic-resume-but-turning-dramatic male lead; blonde female lead; a familiar-yet-unfamiliar city, and the Jewish comic relief (<i>Batman</i>'s Robert Wuhl versus <i>The Shadow</i>'s Boyle). At this point, the Batman franchise wasn't even the Batman franchise. We were entering the glut of excess, where studio executives envisioned the film/toy/bedspread/cereal box empire... with no care to the movie in the middle.<br />
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When it came to geek movies of the 1990s, studios needed their bacchanalia of Batman codpieces, zany Phantoms, and yes, lousy Shadows. They needed to swear off the fat of pulp stories, so that, six years later, the same pulp sources would start to be treated earnestly and seriously. It started with Bryan Singer's <i>X-Men</i> starring, ironically, the very same Ian McKellan who had moved from comic boob in<i> The Shadow</i> to a metaphorical Malcom X.<br />
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Thus is the legacy of <i>The Shadow</i>: necessary tomfoolery before the serious work began.<br />
<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-32830271247216085192014-02-24T16:20:00.000-05:002014-02-24T16:20:00.619-05:00In Praise of "Who"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.fuenf-filmfreunde.de/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/sir-patrick-stewart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://www.fuenf-filmfreunde.de/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/sir-patrick-stewart.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my grandma. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So Grandma is from England, and despite the decision by my grandparents to not impose a strong cultural imprint upon their scions, a fair amount of the English bits have stuck. I'm well versed in Shakespeare (my whimsical essay entitled "Zounds!: How Four Plays by the Bard Influenced Batman and Robin" being a cheeky college hit), the Beatles, tea (my favorite being Earl Grey, hot), and I've seen a genuine Officer of the Order of the British Empire perform on stage--twice (that's a knight to you common folk, and 'twas Sir Patrick Stewart performing Dickens).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet there's always been one area of Britannia that has tended to allude me: its television. In my mind, most British television that has made its way to our shores was made very inexpensively (cheap sets, poor camera work, and, most naff, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">shot on videotape</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">). Yes, many a fine American program was shot on videotape, but never to the benefit of the show. Indeed, many a late evening BBC-to-PBS program that we watched at Grandma's was basically like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Yes, I've just made a sly <i>LOST</i> reference there.) Sometimes, if there was a laugh track, you'd know it was supposed to be funny. Other times... perhaps it was silly, perhaps dramatic. If the costumes were fussy, you could assume it wasn't funny.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet, at least the contemporary and historical offerings were earnest, albeit poorly produced by American standards (though admittedly much better acted). There was a third category that <i>never</i> made sense to me: Doctor Who. I watched parts of a few episodes as a kid, usually with my uncle. It never, ever made any god damn sense. Not only was there the standard cultural barrier, but the god-awful effects turned the show into a veritable fever dream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Atrocious effects, atrocious sets, strange situations, and plots making absolutely zero sens: that's what Doctor Who was to me when I was but a boy. It worked out rather well: during the 1980s the show petered out and was cancelled... and ended up being some in-the-past cultural footnote. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Or so I thought. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://stuffpoint.com/doctor-who/image/68148-doctor-who-eric-roberts-the-master.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://stuffpoint.com/doctor-who/image/68148-doctor-who-eric-roberts-the-master.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roberts in Doctor Who.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I do vaguely remember when Fox tried to semi-reboot the series in the mid 1990s. I say semi-reboot because series had already established that the Doctor can die and come back in another form, allowing for a new actor and new personality to portray the character in a continued continuity. I skipped Fox's TV movie (a failed backdoor pilot), sensing that certain Fox stink to it. I'd only learn later that the network took this quintessentially British show and gave it an American baddie in the form of Eric Roberts <i>and</i> shot it in Canada. My case of the mehs only continue when the BBC formally rebooted the show in 2005. After all, state-side, it was wholly ignored; it aired on the Sci Fi Channel 18 months after showing up in Britain. By the time it was an American cable hit (eventually and logically making its way to BBC America--duh), it was already past me. Where to start with a series that literally has more episodes than <i>Star Trek</i>, and has been on so long that some episodes have been lost to time? </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3FZBb-cYPemg3XxC9js_U-spk055CUzCu8WP8eiX2VEzdZ_qpifDdknTTkjm2PRpQ86FJYAG-BoCXsfcIG4SRbGPkJPg-wDiVRCZJCjxb34IuKeIzNR2WMXLa_qJxf3p0-0mlkAv79s/s1600/drwhoseries1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3FZBb-cYPemg3XxC9js_U-spk055CUzCu8WP8eiX2VEzdZ_qpifDdknTTkjm2PRpQ86FJYAG-BoCXsfcIG4SRbGPkJPg-wDiVRCZJCjxb34IuKeIzNR2WMXLa_qJxf3p0-0mlkAv79s/s320/drwhoseries1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's back! </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Luckily, the answer was, as it is with many things, Netflix. In addition to a varied mess of older <i>Who</i> tv movies (or serial episodes put together as a TV movie?), it has the modern series. It's clearly delineated: it's called <i>Doctor Who</i> and it starts in 2005 and it has a bunch of seasons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And you know what? It's bloody bril! The first episode, "Rose," is a bit sluggish (as pilots are oft to be), but it does a great job spelling out the basics of the series: the Doctor travels through time and space with his companion (this time, for now, Rose) in a time machine that looks like a police call box on the outside, and a steampunky alien control room on the inside. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's that simple. It's that easy to watch... provided that you just open your mind (though not like Cathica in "The Long Game," certainly!) to such things: as the end of the world in 5 billion AD as witnessed by, among others, tree people; aliens who kill Tony Blair in order to take over the world while wearing human being skins and farting excessively and to their great relief; characters with names like</span> "the Mighty Jagrafress of the Holy Hadrajassic Maxaraddenfoe;" and a boyfriend replacement made of plastic. That last one isn't what you think it is, either; batteries not needed, as it's not a mechanical John Thomas.<br />
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The best thing about Doctor Who is that its one giant roller coaster. <span style="line-height: 19px;">In one episode, it's ghosts and Charles Dickens; in the next, there's a giant head that talks a bit; after that, there's going back in time for Rose to see her father die, then Rose and the Doctor go back in time to see Rose see her father die.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19px;">Hardly being a shite-hawk, <i>Doctor Who </i>is quite appropriate for every cultural toff among us.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jWNhyMUpjSE/SRBl_K-SRWI/AAAAAAAABfo/XwrW6AqBQmU/s400/jag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jWNhyMUpjSE/SRBl_K-SRWI/AAAAAAAABfo/XwrW6AqBQmU/s400/jag.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look up! It's the Mighty Jagrafress of the Holy Hadrajassic Maxaraddenfoe!</td></tr>
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<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-85781751379322198412014-02-17T16:11:00.000-05:002014-02-17T16:11:00.284-05:00Whip Out Your "Spaceballs"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT7gVkvGUm-sCHCQ8KmMDUYKQEpwf1bU-3PTcEWFKx1iizrQgoDLeWwgMuKAPRXS5R7NkfqoPWoBmZFaGwEXTfr39BWsf6WALW_l0abtTkgTylpQKFTvvruegMWyXb40ekavPAothU2od/s1600/S14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT7gVkvGUm-sCHCQ8KmMDUYKQEpwf1bU-3PTcEWFKx1iizrQgoDLeWwgMuKAPRXS5R7NkfqoPWoBmZFaGwEXTfr39BWsf6WALW_l0abtTkgTylpQKFTvvruegMWyXb40ekavPAothU2od/s320/S14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a metaphor.</td></tr>
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Love, sweet love, is about exuberance! About excitement! About the impossible... made possible! Thus I can only write of but one geekly love, one whose example shines, to paraphrase the Bard, like a star to every wand'ring ship.<br />
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The answer is Lonestar. The film is <i>Spaceballs</i>. The love is Vespa. It... is... magic.<br />
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Do we not aspire for love to cross betwixt two houses? Does not Lonestar, the scraggy Solo rogue of the universe, speak to the American image of being a self-made and independent man? Does not Vespa, a princessly example of the haute femme, speak to the queenly manner that most men see in their ladies? And does not such a mixture, that of rogue and royal, remind us of the pitfalls of courtship?<br />
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All relationships have their trials. For some, it is moving to follow a job; for others, it is a change of independence; others still have their mountains to climb. In <i>Spaceballs</i>, the love between our heroes is an interplanetary manner, what with the evil President Skroob trying to suck out all the air breathed by the lovely Druish folks on the planet of Druidia (or, as Vesba says, Dru-id-ee-ah). In order to find their true love, Lonestar and Vespa cross hot desserts and cold space. Together, they are strong than before; Lonestar finds his place in the universe (conveniently, he's a prince) and Vespa learns to handle a gun and sing slave spirituals. <br />
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Though for all these platitudes... let us be honest. The emotion of love is the greatest of components for happiness, but... how does one put this delicately... is not Lonestar a man? Does he not have manly needs? Luckly, the film addresses this by way of... THE SCHWARTZ! There are those who have misread the Schwartz to simply be a one-for-one copy of Star Wars' the Force. Alas, alas! that such simple minds dare tackle great cinema! Is not its writer/director/producer/co-star Mel Brooks of the Jewish persuasion? Is not "schwantz" the Yiddish word for penis? (Wikipedia says <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaceballs#The_Schwartz">yes</a>!) Thus then, we see how fully <i>Spaceballs</i> treats love not only as an emotional act, but as a physical one as well.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDK1FfxeQ_M-e8Tt4y-gNu8LYFUCYTmGQp2AfUWBV02YYGSpsUQ7c8Lv1VhBkV3QnqZpBh2VQYgSho7OxDMhKORGoA8K8phdHDBk_tVmwC7ZlKB5WzKMR5DIxcEd1QxPhcbppgk9Pnc1V/s1600/1526_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDK1FfxeQ_M-e8Tt4y-gNu8LYFUCYTmGQp2AfUWBV02YYGSpsUQ7c8Lv1VhBkV3QnqZpBh2VQYgSho7OxDMhKORGoA8K8phdHDBk_tVmwC7ZlKB5WzKMR5DIxcEd1QxPhcbppgk9Pnc1V/s320/1526_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Look! It's a romantic comedy!"</td></tr>
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Valentine's Day might be past us, but every day can be a day of love. Treat yourself, treat your sweetie... pop out the <i>Spaceballs</i> for a few hours and see what happens.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-3509072994922860612014-02-10T16:18:00.000-05:002014-02-10T16:18:00.578-05:00Two Ships in a Small WorldIt's all true.<br />
I'm sure I wasn't old enough to appreciate it: at the age of 8 or 9, receiving a first kiss on my cheek on the front steps of Calvary Church. It meant very little, in the grand scheme of the great wide world, but it left my cheek warm and my heart beating, the way only, perhaps, a first kiss can.<br />
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Her name, which I have changed for reasons which will become obvious as this story goes on, wasn't a particularly lyrical one. To call her Rosie Mae Marks is an improvement. I suppose we were in the same Sunday school class--that must have been how we knew each other before whatever evening church function facilitated the kiss beneath an enveloping, starry sky. She was the middle of three sisters--girls that my family knew in the way church families become once-a-week friends. Rosie had an older sister, lovely with glowing apple cheeks, named Leia. (It was around this time that my brother and I discovered <i>Star Wars</i>; we got quite a kick out of her name.) Rosie had a younger sister as well, and the ten-and-twenty plus years that span this story have erased her true name from my memory; we'll call her Molly. Molly was, as I recall from those church days, one of those plump, cherubic girls of about 5 who could truly and objectively live up to the adjective "cute."<br />
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The three Marks girls seemed like a hopefully mirror to my own family, what with two girls the ages of myself and my brother, and the big sister I had always wanted. Add to that the fact that their father had a very, very impressive job: he owned a fishing boat. Not a boat from which one casually fished, mind you. It was a boat from which fish were commercially harvested. It was named, in fact, "Rosie Mae;" Mr. Marks would captain the trawler out of Point Pleasant inslet every day, on the search for a bounty from the sea. The job seemed important and romantic--man at one with nature, being part of the circle of life, being amidst nature. It seemed like wholesome, honest work done.<br />
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That the boat was named for his middle daughter struck me as oddly unfair to the other two, particularly when I was 8 or 9. <br />
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The name stuck with me.<br />
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We weren't at the church for more than 4 or 5 years as I recall, the product of my mother's constant look for "the perfect church" and her strange resistance to the truth of church matters: any congregation of humans will include imperfection. Yet, as it turned out, we lived in the same down as the Marks family. And Rosie, having been in my Sunday school class, also logically turned out to be in my grade at school. In middle school, we must have passed each other in the hall, or perhaps had the same gym class. If so, I don't remember it--but I did always remember her. <br />
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As the classes got harder and we children became young men and women, wewere necessarily and eventually moved into future paths. I was en route to an academic existence. In high school, I had honors classes; Rosie took to wearing her hair long and mussed, to wearing strange knit hats and ducking out at lunch to the nearby shop which, being one hundred <i>and one</i> feet from the school, was a legal haven for smokers of all sorts. <br />
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Our paths continued to diverge, of course. Perhaps she would have faded from all memory... if not for the strangest of turns.<br />
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My senior year, I rather stepped into a new direction, and with it came some new friends. One was named Becky, who seemed to have a very lackadaisical home life. Not without structure, of course, but no real oomph to it all. Hers was the house where one could easily have 10 people over for moderate-to-heavy drinking, with mom and dad for the night but vaguely supportive of a small, quiet, no-driving get-together.<br />
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Life for Becky's father was, as it turned out, not easy. That spring he revealed he had been cheating on his wife (and by emotional extension, his daughters) with another woman. Pain, anger, grief welled up in the family, as can be expected in a time like that. What happened next was not expected: a month later, he went over his mistress' home, took out a revolver, and blew his brains out all over her kitchen table. Words, doubtless, do not suffice to describe the exponential growth of pain, anger, and grief experienced by Becky, her sister, and their mother. Yet, as time went on, the remaining family grew closer, as can be expected.<br />
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One August evening, a few months after my high school graduation and many weeks after her father's suicide, Becky and I found ourselves parked (platonically, thank you very much) at the Point Pleasant inslet. We were there for lack of anything better to do, and having a fine time talking about nothing. Becky, doubtless, was smoking; I, doubtless, was trying to avoid it. Boats, large and small, were in the inslet. Pleasure craft were coming back from a day of sun-baked frivolity. Party boats, filled with paying customers out to fish in the ocean, were on their way out. <br />
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So too were the trawlers. She pointed one out in particular: the Rosie May.<br />
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"You graduated with Rosie May Marks, didn't you?" she asked. <br />
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I said I did. <br />
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"Her father is a fisherman. That's his boat. He's got a wife and other daughters..." This much I knew of course. I wondered if she was reflecting on her own father, who had himself a wife and daughters. <br />
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Yet at that particular moment, the strange turn was taken. Becky continued in a hazy sort of voice. "My mom and I have been talking a lot since... you know, my dad. She said that when she was 18, she dated Mr. Marks. This was before he met his wife. She got pregnant. You know, from him. They decided to give it up for adoption."<br />
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Becky took a drag on her cigarette. "So I guess I have some half sister out there, somewhere. My mom's first kid. Mr. Marks' first kid. A kid no one knows about."<br />
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I suppose Becky could have met her half-sister a dozen times over. Perhaps I have. Perhaps Rosie Mae has as well. None of us would have known it. Perhaps that speaks to us living in a cold, distant world. One daughter has a fine, upstanding father... until his sexual indiscretions catch up and it ends with a funeral. One daughter has a fine, upstanding father... until his sexual indiscretions get retold on a black August night and it ends with no consequences.<br />
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Perhaps I have a grim sense of connectivity, though, for I don't see it as an example of a callous existence. There is something reassuring about knowing Rosie May as a child, and vaguely as a teen... and seeing her father's boat heading out into the ocean this very day. Thinking of his secret child. His family, incomplete.<br />
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It is, after all, a small world.<br />
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<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-53441449352584614512014-02-03T16:17:00.000-05:002014-02-03T16:17:00.039-05:00Spin Off It, Happy Days! Eyyy!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/4d/Happy-days.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/4d/Happy-days.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"These days are ouuuuuuurs!"</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I hated <i>Spider-Man 3</i> and, between you and me, will only see <i>The New Adventures of Old Spider-Man</i> (or whatever the new one staring Friend From Social Network is called) if the PhGeek crew goes along. It is, you see, <a href="http://phgeekpodcast.blogspot.com/">podcast</a> fodder, and a chance to hang out. Furthermore, it seems that Sony has decided to follow Paramount's Star Trek model: keep squeezing blood from the stone. But is it too soon? Perhaps--though it isn't my hundreds of millions of dollars, and the fact that I'm vaguely open to seeing it (at the movies, on iTunes, or as a freebee Redbox rental) suggests that it isn't too soon. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What would have been too soon is the spinoff--and worse, a concurrent spinoff. The greatest offender of this? None other than... HAPPY DAYS.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That's right: the cheery show upon which I grew up watching the syndicated reruns; the show that painted its smiling picture of midwest, mid-century Americana. It was, during its time, a hit-making machine, whereby any possible show was connected to it for spinoff glory and gold. Consider, if you will, that <i>Happy Days</i> was on for eleven seasons. How many spinoffs could come from that? The shocking answer: a whopping <u style="font-style: italic;">seven</u> series, though, as you'll see below, the number might rightly be called eight. Blood from the stone? How about separating the stone into little pieces, <i>then</i> getting blood from the stone?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ice pop this time, next time....</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The first spinoff was <i>Laverne and Shirley</i>, and it certainly didn't spin very far: whereas <i>Happy Days</i> took place in late 50s/early 60s Milwaukee, both Laverne and Shirley live in... early 60s Milwaukee. Indeed, the connection between the two shows was organic, as the gals were friends with Fonzie, and easily introduced on the mothership show. Further, appearances by Fonzie et al were made exceedingly easy, given that they were in the same local (and indeed, next door neighbors on their sound stages). The show lasted 8 seasons (albeit without Shirley, but still called <i>Laverne and Shirley</i>, for most of the last season). Ironically series finale was a backdoor pilot for an unproduced spinoff... of a spinoff.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The second spinoff started to stretch things. It starts with a freshening premise: <i>Happy Days</i> season 5, needing a new idea, takes a twist on <i>My Favorite Martian</i> with "My Favorite Orkan," in which Mork from Ork visits chaos upon Richie... albeit under the "and you were there, and you were there" hook of it being all a dream. The character was so popular that the spinoff <i>Mork and Mindy</i> was created... this time setting the show in the contemporary 1970s, thereby closing the door to cross-series interaction--or so you'd think. With the creation of the show, a <i>new</i> scene was shot to be added to reruns of "My Favorite Orkan," explaining that Mork would be going to 1978 to continue his research. In essence, more Mork was retconned into <i>Happy Days</i>. Further, Mork went back to the past in a later <i>Happy Days</i> episode... to facilitate a clip show. <i>Mork and Mindy</i> lasted four seasons; interestingly, it was the #3 show on television in its first year.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The third live action spinoff (why live action? Just wait, dear reader....) was the ill-fated <i>Joanie Loves Chachi</i>, of which neither she nor we did. It seemed well stocked, for not only did Joanie Cunningham and the proto-Fonzie and cousin-of-the-same Chachi make the leap from the mothership to a new show, but so did Chachi's mother Louisa and stepfather and owner of Arnold's drive-in, Al. Yet lest Scott Baio be nailing a decade's worth (or two) of Playmates or playing Charles, ever in charge, he's not much of a draw. The show lasted two seasons--which is to say, a scant 17 episodes en toto. The mothership-to-spinoff characters were returned to <i>Happy Days</i> the following and final season.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Fourth, we come to <i>Out of the Blue</i>, whose existence as a spinoff seems debatable--if one cares to debate it. First, a description from its Wikipedia <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Out_of_the_Blue_(1979_TV_series)">page</a>: "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">The series stars </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Jimmy Brogan</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> as Random, an angel-in-training who is assigned to live with (and act as guardian angel for) a family and work as a high school teacher." Yes, I'm sure it's as awful as it sounds. Further, it seems that somewhere along the way, its spinoff launch went sour. The second episode of <i>Happy Days' </i>seventh season is called <i>"</i>Chachi<i> </i>Sells<i> </i>His<i> </i>Soul," wherein he interacts with sed angelic Random. The only problem is that <i>Out of the Blue</i>, as a series, started over a week earlier. The show lasted one season of 13 episodes... of which 9 were aired.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Least, but certainly not last (why not last? Just wait, dear reader...) is <i>Blansky's Beauties</i>, which has quite the sloppy little start. First, a bit about the show. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">The show's premise was the Blansky was a den mother of sorts to a bevy of Las Vegas showgirl beauties. Yes, I'm sure it was thrilling. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">A week before the show aired, title character Nancy Blanksy appeared on <i>Happy Days</i>. Not so difficult, is it? The only problem is that her own show took place in the late 1970s--thus without the virtue of Mork-esque time travel, the show spun off without aging 20 years. This sloppy time warp continued: the motorcyclist and ladyfriend of Fonzie named Pinky appeared in <i>Blansky's Beauties</i>, albeit with 70s hair but no aging; further, Arnold of Arnold's drive-in, became a series regular here--again, having not aged at all. Lastly, while not strictly sloppy time travel, two <i>actors</i> from the show would move to <i>Happy Days</i>, albeit as different characters... including Scott Baio, who turned into the afore-metioned Chachi.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">And now we have completed the live action spinoffs. But wait, there's more: the wonderful, strange world of <i>Happy Days</i> ANIMATION. There were three shows... which sound like less, but were not. First is the innocuous-sounding <i>The Fonz and the Happy Days Gang</i>, featuring the voices of the Fonz, Richie, and Ralph. And more. As per the Wikipedia <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fonz_and_the_Happy_Days_Gang#Premise">article</a>, "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">The cartoon added an anthropomorphic dog, Mr. Cool, and a girl from the future, Cupcake, to the cast as they travel through history in a time machine, trying, as narrator Wolfman Jack put it, '...to get back to 1957 Milwaukee.' Let's just repeat that, shall we? They take the gang from <i>Happy Days</i> and add... Mr. Cool, a dog, and Cupcake, a future girl. It's an embarrassing notion. It lasted two seasons and 24 episodes--not a bad run for animation before syndication and cable. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">But that wasn't the end for animated Fonz, nor for Mr. Cool. But first, we must turn our attention to the animated <i>Laverne and Shirley, </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">in which they joined the army. Anthropomorphicism ruled, for the ladies served under the command of Sgt. Squeel, a talking pig. That series lasted one season and 13 episodes... but still, spinoffs did not end!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Finally, truly, we come to an odd creation, an hour-long creation called <i>Mork & Mindy/Laverne & Shirley/Fonz Hour</i>, made up of two parts: Mork and Mindy's animated adventures (called simply <i>Mork and Mindy</i>), and a second half called <i>Laverne and Shirley with the Fonz</i>). In the latter portion, Fonz and Mr. Cool are part of the army motor pool. At long last, talking pigs and dogs were serving in the army. Sadly, and oddly, the latter portion didn't last too long, as the actress playing Shirley left both her animated and live action realm, shuttered the animated series after 8 episodes. However, the animated <i>Mork & Mindy</i> lasted 24 episodes... leading the whole entire hour to recycle its second half for a total of three cycles.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">And that seems like the best way to end the topic of excessive spinoffs: with an animated hour, itself a spinoff of... how many spinoffs? The animated hour came from two other animated shows, each, as wells at the <i>Mork</i> animation, sourced from three main shows, two of which were spinoffs themselves from <i>Happy Days....</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">But did I mention that, strictly speaking, <i>Happy Days</i> was a spinoff? The unsold pilot for <i>New Family in Town</i> aired on <i>Love, American Style</i> under the title <i>Love and the Happy Days</i>... which was spun-off to become... <i>Happy Days.</i></span><br />
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<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-56748127126323197212014-01-27T16:16:00.000-05:002014-01-27T16:16:00.944-05:00Magic, Still Kicking<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0H9pn6dbhnXUKbzrLnE-5A8hAcGVQ8264E9FhhPwmfiLPVWvmqRAx5q2KZXnrjhIVza2IWtYMIAz14stg7yGpi8NIi6t3RTOamODcnEqr9IA6Mbl-In4SJ3gxka4t4LTJeG-ZsVCeQgOD/s1600/Magic_Bird_Lipofsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0H9pn6dbhnXUKbzrLnE-5A8hAcGVQ8264E9FhhPwmfiLPVWvmqRAx5q2KZXnrjhIVza2IWtYMIAz14stg7yGpi8NIi6t3RTOamODcnEqr9IA6Mbl-In4SJ3gxka4t4LTJeG-ZsVCeQgOD/s320/Magic_Bird_Lipofsky.jpg" width="252" /></a>When I was but a boy, middle school started in 5th grade. Things were different in Memorial Middle School: an earlier start time, gym every day, and a new type of health class. <br />
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Gone was the in-class instruction done by a short haired woman teaching from a cart: now, in the big leaves, was instruction done in the health room by a short haired woman teaching from a cart! The message had changed too. We no longer talked about having lots of veggies and how cigarettes can make your lungs turn black. <br />
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Instead, there was a new whisper in the wind: s-e-x. And, in the early 1990s, there was a new crypt keeper in town: AIDS, which, as it turned out, wasn't just for <i>those</i> types anymore. Anyone could get it. Get it and die. AIDS, we were told by the curly-haired health teacher who smoked cigarettes by the carton in her car, would take you from the prime of your life and wipe it all away... to nothingness! And who was the poster child for such loss?<br />
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Irving "Magic" Johnson. He was, we were told, perpetually about to die. Coincidentally (or not), white, upper middle class health teachers also found in him the perfect stereotype of lust: an inner city black man whose aspirations were always physical. (No matter that grew up in a stable, two income, two parent home in the state capital, nor that his goal when entering college was to get a degree. Such things were not a concern to health teachers at the time.)<br />
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Now, because health teachers are generally the least ambitious of the entire profession ("Oh, I want to talk to my coworkers today. Dodgeball, everyone! <i>Tweet</i>!"), we heard the same message each year: <u>Magic Johnson Will Die! Soon!!</u><i> </i>To be fair, there was precious little in terms of AIDS research at the time. This was, if you'll remember, a time concurrent with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryan_White">Ryan White</a> and the start of public figures wearing<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_ribbon#AIDS_awareness_origin"> red ribbons</a>; a bit of confusion was to be expected. <br />
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Nonetheless, here we are an astonishing twenty one years later. Middle school me would doubtless be surprised to hear that Magic is alive. He did not die during the 1992 NBA All-Star Game (where he played, despite numerous players being concerned about him being either gay or about to spontaneously shoot AIDS upon then), but rather one the MVP <i>and the game</i>. He has been a partial owner of the Lakers, in charge of his own $700 million dollar business called Magic Johnson Enterprises, and now is part of the Dodgers ownership group. (Perhaps Admiral Piet can supply the figures as to how many other baseball teams have partial ownership by a black man, a further note on how things have changed since 1947.) <br />
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It is probably fair to say that at age 59, Magic Johnson will likely die somewhat earlier than would have been his appointed time, and that it will likely be due to having contracted HIV. (Back in those heady days of middle school, a minor distinction was made between HIV and AIDS, as when you caught the former, you'd catch the latter soon enough, we were told.) Nonetheless, his life has been far from the racially-tinged story of woe told over and over to me and my middle school peers. <br />
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Hop on your Delorean and go ask me at age 11. If you told me he was still kicking in 2012, I'd say it was like magic.<br />
<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-36200545588799525612014-01-20T16:14:00.000-05:002014-01-20T16:14:00.624-05:00You Can't Take the Sky From Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYAtVSdbpprtLjwfaVh1wHx0Rl1hv4HWmKujxhPdNHanGm5wFugirjjdbwjTeq7RGWilEte3JDiue4R8G_ZGl8dwGmXLgsd1CKza21itGTRXKeNdd9aiPcVApJHbNYdhyGzt6caky0tyq/s1600/firefly-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYAtVSdbpprtLjwfaVh1wHx0Rl1hv4HWmKujxhPdNHanGm5wFugirjjdbwjTeq7RGWilEte3JDiue4R8G_ZGl8dwGmXLgsd1CKza21itGTRXKeNdd9aiPcVApJHbNYdhyGzt6caky0tyq/s320/firefly-logo.jpg" width="320" /></a>I know how difficult it must be to get a television show on the air. It seems most shows start with a low number of people--say anywhere from 1-5--who are <u>the</u> voice of the show. They love it as a child, and their vision is one of perfection. Then in come the others; sometimes its the moneypeople, sometimes the network brass, sometimes other, more vaunted producers. But to actually get a show on the air, particularly one that has a unique vision, is increasingly rare. That goes double for network TV. So to triumph over those odds must be a special achievement indeed.<br />
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Then the network mishandles your show and kills it.<br />
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That's the story of <i>Firely</i>, Joss Whedon's scifi/western love letter to the very best of TV. It was a nearly perfect show for network TV in so many ways. A nice, big cast, sufficiently multiracial. An incredible main setpiece: the namesake-class ship <i>Serenity</i> featured the bridge, living area, cargo bay, and more all on a larger film soundstage, allowing for the entire set to be connected as one home for the show. Despite its scifi set-up, it was also equally dedicated to its western--which is to say American folklore--background. Our hero, Mal Reynolds, was more solo space cowboy than Han, but somehow sadder and more alone. The list goes on, because it's a <i>great</i> cast of a characters: a priest, a prostitute, a dim-witted gunman (of sorts), a doctor, a girly-girl engineer, and the mysterious young lady.<br />
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Yes, on the one hand, it sounds like Ford's <i>Stagecoach</i>. <u>But that's the point!</u> <i>Firefly </i><b>was</b> America--it was meant to be us! It was meant to capture our world and transport it to another time and another place, and in that time and place we could find ourselves.<br />
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The entire series consists of 14 episode. There are a few in the beginning that are a tad wobbly, as the show finds its feet ("The Train Job" comes to mind.") There are a few in the middle which are good, silly fun ("Jaynestown" comes to mind.)<br />
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Yet after that middle, the show finds its brilliance. "Out of Gas" is an incredible episode--essentially a flashback pilot episode, except it takes us before the series started and shows us how everyone got to where they are. "Objects in Space" is the series finale. It's surreal and strange and wonderful. It's heartbreaking, because its the last of the show.<br />
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Now yes, yes, I can hear the naysayers: but it got its second chance. It got its movie--a movie which did alright, but not enough to justify more TV or more movies. To that, I have no answer. I'm no Hollywood beancounter. I watch smart TV. It's usually entertaining (<i>Survivor), </i>it's often depressing (<i>The Walking Dead</i>), but its always smart. Looking at the renewal plight of <i>Alcatraz</i>, I know that part of the problem is that too few of us watch smart television; that's why <i>The Voice</i> is a smash hit, and <i>Mad Men</i> is a boutique show enjoyed by 2 million people.<br />
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All I know is that <i>Firefly</i> represented a dream--not just a dream of Joss Whedon to transplant the Western motif into space, but a dream about the kind of television that <i>should</i> be on. And there's the great irony: that TV is ultimately in the hands of those beancounters, people more loyal to corporate bosses then creating great dramatic presentations. There is, I suppose, a certain irony in <i>Firefly</i>'s lyrics, since all we're left with us the great sky-dream of the show:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqQABat-GE9ByJXQHI9YD2pWX9i2Apq-RS-dmxlsYkPQSG7YAbwVGxI5Ke0s6k2WgODamHBp9Xo64p2VEth-BcxzNeSfZ1-r2kZEArl9vDLQ96Y-yfpxkprHes1OCKEoIUIc1NPBNWHGC/s1600/foomandoonian_01_1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqQABat-GE9ByJXQHI9YD2pWX9i2Apq-RS-dmxlsYkPQSG7YAbwVGxI5Ke0s6k2WgODamHBp9Xo64p2VEth-BcxzNeSfZ1-r2kZEArl9vDLQ96Y-yfpxkprHes1OCKEoIUIc1NPBNWHGC/s320/foomandoonian_01_1024x768.jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Lost my love, lost my land<br />
Lost the last place I could stand<br />
There's no place I can be<br />
Since I've found Serenity<br />
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And you can't take the sky from me.</i></div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-40131523277892483862014-01-13T16:14:00.000-05:002014-01-13T16:14:00.277-05:00Knight Industries Two ThousandRobot friend. It's something that has been considered ever since the Čapek brothers first stared throwing around the word robot. Yet there are a few things to consider before picking your robot friend.<br />
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First, let's not forget the basic point of view when it comes to technology in genera<a href="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20051220054011/memoryalpha/en/images/c/c4/Tasha_Yar_seduces_Data.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20051220054011/memoryalpha/en/images/c/c4/Tasha_Yar_seduces_Data.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 220px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 248px;" /></a>l and extrapolate towards a robot. Why did the VHS format overtake the superior Betamax system in the battle for home video systems? Pornography was more available on VHS. What helped fuel growth of the internet in the 1990s? Ever-increasing pornography. Why would a robot friend in human form be any different--would not it be used for the same lascivious purposes? Indeed, this has already been foretold in the... un-landmark episode of <span style="font-style: italic;">Star Trek: The Next Generation</span> entitled "The Naked Now." Made effectively drunk by a virus ripped off from the original <span style="font-style: italic;">Sta</span><span style="font-style: italic;">r Trek</span>, Tasha Yar ensnares the android Mr. Data. She inquires if he is fully functional in every way. He replies in the affirmative, and lasciviousness ensues. At any rate, a robot must not be in too familiar a form.<br />
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So then we should have a robot which is a bit more mechanical looking. But what about it's internal security? I'm a fan of the film <span style="font-style: italic;">Lost in Space</span>, perhaps because it has the two things that make Heather Graham great (hint: it's not her ability to deliver dialogue and look e<a href="http://i10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jmidget123/LostinSpaceRobot.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i10.photobucket.com/albums/a116/jmidget123/LostinSpaceRobot.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 141px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 157px;" /></a>motive). At any rate, the robot, called Robot, was an imposing creation that could mind the environmental controls, wheel about on cool treads, shoot a laser beam, AND declare "Danger, Will Robinson!" The downside though was its security. Once reprogrammed by that pesky Dr. Smith, the robot (or Robot, if you prefer the proper noun) attempted to shoot and kill the family. Same thing with Johnny Five from <span style="font-style: italic;">Short Circuit</span>--too much "I want to kill you" and not enough "I want to help you fold laundry." (A brief digression: isn't <span style="font-style: italic;">Short Circuit 2</span> superior to the original?)<br />
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Let us then get the meat and potatoes of it all: our robot friend must be thoughtful, intelligent, human-sounding, not in human form, and non-lethal. I'll add to it that if the robot friend is of appropriate intelligence, there should be some sort of space made to prevent it from interrupting when you're in your bedroom with that hot girl who can fix cars and complain about Michael Bay (see <span style="font-style: italic;">Sam Witwicky vs Optimus Prime</span>). Thus we come to the greatest of all possible robot friends: KITT from <span style="font-style: italic;">Knight Rider</span>. His intelligence and wit will keep one thoroughly occupied and amused--and, for long car rides, he'll both drive and play chess with you. Also, like any good friend, he'll make sure you're safe. Bullets are no problem (tires included), and he comes with wifi, video chat, and a sun roof. KITT is kind and inquisitive, but not in an annoying Mr. Data sort of way; can one imagine asking KITT how long it will take to get to Albuquerque and being told "4 hours, 8 minutes, 15 seconds"? Of course not--he'd say "A little over 4 hours, Matthew."<br />
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KITT: the robot I'd recommend.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.toplessrobot.com/kitt2_m_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.toplessrobot.com/kitt2_m_m.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 293px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 392px;" /></a></span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-85984568492227489312014-01-06T16:13:00.000-05:002014-01-06T16:13:00.501-05:00Wither Thee, Pizza?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: inherit; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNmC7Jq3Q6bWpo9GbXZT8QZ8hKlUo8jXIdPaLU7nikoiQV7gWGVD4U3Yj7SsxOWsVpb8Q4cuYRjy1tR-p6jO2D3VmlEW73OC85_5Or9IGqEui_-vHRdP7i0RO8YdKKBl0QwQvvhHaTbFQ/s1600/pats-pizza-subs-philly-386x367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNmC7Jq3Q6bWpo9GbXZT8QZ8hKlUo8jXIdPaLU7nikoiQV7gWGVD4U3Yj7SsxOWsVpb8Q4cuYRjy1tR-p6jO2D3VmlEW73OC85_5Or9IGqEui_-vHRdP7i0RO8YdKKBl0QwQvvhHaTbFQ/s320/pats-pizza-subs-philly-386x367.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Arguably the best in town.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I feel for those whose pizza experience is limited to Dominos, Pizza Hut, and Papa Johns. You see, when it comes to the food once called a "circular Italian food object" by future Oscar winner Tim Robbins in the weighty film <i>Howard the Duck</i>, I've been blessed. In my hometown, there are a number of real pizzerias, with real people making real food. (Spoiler: all the Dominos dough everywhere is trucked in, having been made in a factory.) Growing up, there were two titans of pizza; both were manned (literally--with no female workers during my childhood) by manly men born in Italy and transplanted to coastal New Jersey. Both were owned by men with thick accents, who's voices spoke of authentic Italian cuisine. (Yes, fine, pizza as we know it is actually American.) Sadly, now are both in decline. Why?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Let's start with Pat's Pizza, having been created and owned by Pasquale, a thin, smiling man whose teeth showed much metal and a heart of gold. His was the pizzeria where the many workers were always happy to make a standard pie with toppings; or a Sicilian pie, square and squat in its own sheen of grease; or a sub (aka the hoagie or grinder); or mozzarella sticks. To enter into the store was to hear a delightful din of workers talking, of the television set showing either the news or <i>football de </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i>Federazione Italiana Giuoco Calcio</i>. The only way to not hear such a din was to go most evenings, or any weekend day or night. The crowd, pressing to the door, could make space in front of the counter a tight proposition. Those of us in the know knew to bypass the line and stand towards the back of the crowd near the counter area. Invariably, you'd catch the eye of a worker who would ask, "Whadyaget?" and you'd be back in your car, hot pie next to you, before the newbies knew what was what.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">About four years ago, tragedy struck. No, Pasquale didn't die, nor was there a fire. Rather, the eponymously nicknamed owner of Pat's Pizza retired, with the intention of taking all his marbles and going back to Italy. Signs of change had been in the air for a while: about two years prior, his daughter had started to work the register and phone (a female! behind the counter! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="hps">la liberazione</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="hps">delle ragazze</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="hps"><i>è arrival!</i>). His daughter, <i>una principessa italiana</i> who started working there while attending high school in town, was always efficient and cordial, but clearly lacked the enthusiasm of... of what? Of taking pizza orders all day? Of the family business? Perhaps she lacked the enthusiasm of a future prospect: being behind the same counter for a generation and beyond, just as her father had done. But I digress: one day, a sign was posted, saying goodbye from Pat and his family. Shock went throughout the town. A coworker and I literally sat in her office and pondered a world without Pat's Pizza. </span></span></div>
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<span class="hps">As it turned out, Pat's Pizza wasn't closing: instead, our English-as-a-second-language friend Pasquale had written the sign to say goodbye from his family's <i>ownership</i> of the business. (Apparently neither the daughter nor the sons relished a prospect of food service for a lifetime.) Pat's Pizza is still there, and probably the best pizza in down. Still, it's a bit different somehow... it lacks a certain pizazz. Was there some post-Pasquale tweak in the recipe? Or does the lack of that metal, toothy smile have some subtle effect when one chows down at home?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">This is all contrasted by the rival pizzeria, Vesuvios. It is co-owned by a mousy, mustachioed man named Dominic and his burly, loud, bulldog-faced roommate. What is the name of the latter gentleman? I don't know. Such is the terror that one has with the man, having grown up going to his pizzeria. One does not name the four horsemen, beyond their vocation; nor does one name the giant pizza-making Italian. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">The menu and Vesuvios is simple: they make pizza. They put toppings on it. They sell fountain soda--the same four flavors for my whole life: Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, root beer, and orange soda. That's it. Either Dominic or the Giant makes the pizza, standing at the counter and throwing the dough. As a child, it was an endlessly fascinating thing to watch. More recently, I just scurry in and out, lucky to have gotten a pie without being yelled at. Case in point as to their customer service: last winter, as a terrible snowstorm was descending on us, I ordered a pie. It was to act not only as dinner, but as lunch the next day; further, it was to be a stopgap just in case we were snowbound a few days and our refrigerated food needed to stretch a tad more. I walked to Vesuvios; on a clear day, it takes five minutes. With the snow, it was doubled--but still better than driving. When I walked in, I was covered with snow, and Dominic and the Giant just stared at me--as though I was the jackass for braving the storm to their pizzeria <i>which was open during the blizzard</i>. (The snow ended up being so bad that their sign, aloft for 40 years, was torn down.) </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">The interesting thing is that it was around that time that their pizza started to decline. At first, I wasn't really aware of it. We don't get pizza that very often, and when we do, it's generally split between a few different places. (A third pizzeria, Cuzzins, is our go-to place when we are inclined to use a debit card. Neither Pats nor Vesuvios takes cards, though the latter has a paper sign posted saying "CASH ONLY. No credit cards or checks.") Most recently, the pie has been smaller than usual; it no longer touches the sides of the box. The cheese somehow seems to float on the sauce, rather than encapsulate the tomato paste. It looks hastily-made, as though the disdain that the Giant clearly has for all who walk through the door is starting to show in his vocation. Perhaps Dominic and the Giant are merely tired of their decades in the business, going from the downstairs pizzeria to their upstairs apartment. (Read into that what you may, though as good Catholics from <i>il paese de il papa</i>, I doubt there is much <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="hps">inespresso</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="hps"><i>amore fisico</i>.) Perhaps I've just hit them at a tired stretch: this is the time of year when, rather surprisingly, they shutter the business for two weeks in order to go on vacation to their homeland. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdmDlJ6GDfWqcSEGIt3ktb-79nDOJxP0OMQJHicBYR_bTZAiwiuqvxsQ7suXyqfJt8Z5vS1L6jD_-wAfG2E4QefO1NdWUxhW5LgXA5f2IOC7UJtH8FIZAykfdXCHyAe1wgdmkPsjTikgOK/s1600/2011-12-21T215030Z_2_BTRE7BK1LZD00_RTROPTP_2_OBAMA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdmDlJ6GDfWqcSEGIt3ktb-79nDOJxP0OMQJHicBYR_bTZAiwiuqvxsQ7suXyqfJt8Z5vS1L6jD_-wAfG2E4QefO1NdWUxhW5LgXA5f2IOC7UJtH8FIZAykfdXCHyAe1wgdmkPsjTikgOK/s320/2011-12-21T215030Z_2_BTRE7BK1LZD00_RTROPTP_2_OBAMA.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Believe in a pizza future? Yes we can!</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Nonetheless... it does make me truly a bit wistful to think that these two pillars of pizza, Pats and Vesuvios, have fallen into relative (the former) or perhaps true (the latter) decline. Pizza--great pizza--is a wonderful culinary treat. Simple pizza, your Dominos and Pizza Huts and Papa Johns of the world, is a tasty treat... but food, not a meal. If we can't count on our local, Italian-run pizzerias to bring us the very best in "circular Italian food objects," what can we count on? It calls into question democracy and security and gravity. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Wither thee, pizza?</span></div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-66060072461520440982013-12-30T16:06:00.000-05:002013-12-30T16:06:00.112-05:00The New World Symphony, and Life<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<i>Note: An older article, here republished.</i><br />
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"He said unto them, He that has ears to hear, let him hear." (<span style="font-size: x-small;">Mark 4:9)</span></div>
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This being my New Year's Eve post, I find myself in a reflective mood. That's to be expected, of course. That I'm writing this at an exceedingly precious moment requires a bit of an explanation.</div>
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It's the evening of December 16, 2011, the 118th anniversary of the premiere of Dvorak's New World Symphony. I am listening to it in its entirety with my daughter who, at 9 months old (in two days time), isn't particularly <i>listening</i> to it. (She does look up at the TV from time to time, where the screensaver is showing animal pictures, to her delight.) The point, though, is that she's <i>hearing</i> it. There's always been something hypnotic in the New World Symphony, something which has spoken deeply to me since I first heard it in high school. The Wikipedia <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphony_No._9_%28Dvo%C5%99%C3%A1k%29">article</a> on the symphony references Dvorak's desire to imbue his music with Native American and African-American influences. To my moderately-tuned ears, I don't hear that--I hear a great deal, though. </div>
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I'll pause for a moment to say that I'm no audiophile. I played saxophone in middle school and high school, and I also partook in high school chorus. I never particularly practiced and could only be considered above average in that I was in the upper 50%, but rarely in the top 10. <br />
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Yet art--great art--speaks to its audience. The first movement speaks of something terrible and wonderful, as one might view a new city from afar. It is big, bold, organized, mechanic, its sounds looking towards venturesome progress with a vague wonder of what's been left behind. In the second movement of the symphony, it might not be Native Americans, but I do hear trees and grass and pristine nature. The third movement is an optimistic progression, with settlers in bonnets, the happy clanking of iron and steel making swords, railroads, and again the quiet look backwards to something hauntingly lost. Or left behind. It turns genteel, with hoop skirts and braided-hair women, and mustachioed gentlemen. The fourth movement is strong and affirming, a spinning glisten with gold, happiness and pride. It says, "Some <i>did</i> fall on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parable_of_the_sower">good ground</a>. Be proud of this land; use care. Be proud of its people; use care. Be proud of yourself... use care."</div>
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That is the best I can describe it. It's like talking about the color orange. Calling it "not red" and "brighter than blue" doesn't really give a definition to the thing. It's the same thing with the 9th (the piece being alternatively called Dvorak's 9th Symphony): I've described it is as <i>I've</i> described it. No musicology, no glance over Dvorak's intent. Just the laser-like beam between the music and my soul.</div>
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A year and a half ago, before my wife and I started our family, I was able to see the 9th performed by the New Jersey Symphony. We were in the first few rows (which, I admit, isn't where <i>real</i> hob-nobs sit, as it's too close. Oh well.), and it was heavenly. Not only was it one of the first concerts conducted by new music director Jacques Lacombe, but it was joyfully different from the well-worn copy I have on my iPod. (Well, as well-worn as digital copies get....) Not very different, mind you, but to hear it performed organically, to see it conducted with nuance and feeling and no concern for the length of a CD... it was heaven. It also was the only time I've ever heard music with a sense that I can only describe as "out of time." When Lacombe lowered his hands for the final time at the end of the fourth movement, it felt as though less than twenty minutes had gone by, when close to fifty had transpired. It may not have trans<i>formed</i> me, but it most certainly did trans<i>port</i> me.</div>
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And, as the symphony enters its final minutes as I type, I cannot help but look to my daughter. This year has brought her, my very own new world. She has, I suppose, origins in places across seas and oceans, but, like Dvorak's masterpiece, is here to make her future in this new world.</div>
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Some did fall on good ground. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yDP56SbxMTFPMHSCKFxJNeSyjxMQS8SUVbayNGeaERGoLcA0sI0enfgSolUPb0eLUiTqyyOzzlBW7-SZiVbDrRgPx8fGuelhdr0eRuO1soYXEyPt8U8nD0E2luGuVLG77hCGIxqomVOd/s1600/IMG_0726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yDP56SbxMTFPMHSCKFxJNeSyjxMQS8SUVbayNGeaERGoLcA0sI0enfgSolUPb0eLUiTqyyOzzlBW7-SZiVbDrRgPx8fGuelhdr0eRuO1soYXEyPt8U8nD0E2luGuVLG77hCGIxqomVOd/s320/IMG_0726.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's been quite a year.</td></tr>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-75336854561157479302013-12-23T16:03:00.000-05:002013-12-23T16:03:00.537-05:00A Community Christmas MiracleI have just rewatched one of the greatest television high-wire acts--an achievement of 22 minutes of Christmas greatness, compounded by how far-fetched its great success is.<br />
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I only started watching NBC's <i>Community</i> in between the first two seasons, at the behest of my brother. Courtesy of the magic of DVD, I raced through the first season and a half, having most recently watched "Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas," which originally aired on December 9, 2010.<br />
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For the sad uninitiated, <i>Community</i> takes place at a community college where seven disparate folks from seven different walks of life have come together in a study group. The requisite "craaaazy guy" (ala Urkle and Balki) is Abed, a Pakistani/Polish-American who wants to be a film director and has Asperger's syndrome. This oftentimes leads him to make meta comments about the show, suggesting that sometimes his view of reality skews towards seeing his life as a TV show. <br />
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"Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas" has a cold opening where everything in it is stop motion animation--to us, anyway. We are seeing the show through the third person limited narration of Abed, who conjectures that everything is now in stop motion because this is the most important Christmas ever (after, you know, the first one). As the plot unfolds, the dialogue of his friends starts to make it clear that they do not share his view--that the episode is taking place in the normal continuity of the show, and those around him do not see things in animation.<br />
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Ultimately, Abed is (marginally) treated by the (marginal) psychology teacher, Professor Duncan. They decide to go, in Abed's delusion, anyway, to Planet Abed, where everything is Christmas. Slowly, we realize that Abed's friends are gamely playing along in an attempt to be there for him in his strange time of need, if not understand him.<br />
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Reaching Santa's Workshop, it is empty and cold. Professor Duncan (dressed as a warlock) returns, saying that he knows why Abed has had this break from reality: Abed's mother, divorced from his father, always used to visit on December 9 (the airdate of the show). They would watch a Christmas movie together.<br />
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But this year she has sent a card saying that she cannot make it--that she has a new family, that he is a man now, and he should understand.<br />
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The show turns surprisingly poignant at that point--doubly so since the sad emotions are being communicated by claymation dolls. Yet the emotions are real.<br />
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Stop motion Abed is consumed by ice, literally... but also a heart-felt metaphor for what has caused his break with reality. Abed's mother, the person who kept the Christmas spirit alive in him, is now gone. The show--a comedy, mind you--suddenly is sad, having cut into the viewers heart. Abed's friends return and sing of the meaning of Christmas, thawing him: that it can be whatever you want it to be, so long as you are with people you love.<br />
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It is sappy. It is effective. It is true.<br />
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I expected the show to then turn back to its normal photography, but it instead cut back to their study group meeting room, all still in stop motion animation. Fixed, healed, Abed wonders if the stop motion should stop. He is interrupted by a friend who says no, that it should continue for the holidays.<br />
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We then see the whole clay group in Abed's dorm room, watching the end of a stop motion Christmas movie. "The End," the clay TV reads, and it fades to black.<br />
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In the screen, we see the real life cast of <i>Community</i> reflected back.<br />
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Sweet, heartfelt, sad, funny, and wonderful: can a 22 minute snarky hipster comedy be all that--and stop motion?<br />
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It truly is a <i>Community</i> Christmas miracle.<br />
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-52836032167662761152013-12-16T16:11:00.000-05:002014-01-02T17:18:16.968-05:00Star Trek, The Mother Load<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kio6p8XXMdhWlLoms-sxA00AyO1aVJC8NedaI64YeurjWBoGxZBt_lMc4o85xlZ5Gqx8mWWVNPu9HpFuwrolI1-iVMMelek28ICVG9KCRhXCU9yKV4VtZaKfc2OFHx1wY17YYFiuN_dd/s1600/best-star-trek-photo-ever-26084-1256454424-64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kio6p8XXMdhWlLoms-sxA00AyO1aVJC8NedaI64YeurjWBoGxZBt_lMc4o85xlZ5Gqx8mWWVNPu9HpFuwrolI1-iVMMelek28ICVG9KCRhXCU9yKV4VtZaKfc2OFHx1wY17YYFiuN_dd/s320/best-star-trek-photo-ever-26084-1256454424-64.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes. It looks like a penis.</td></tr>
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It's <i>Star Trek</i>. </div>
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It's always been <i>Star Trek.</i><i style="font-family: inherit;"> </i></div>
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Where else can you find the widest range of fans around--or fans with such longevity? Some of the most meaningful Trek is over 40 years old; some of best Trek is the most recent iteration. Trek, and its fans, can encapsulate the very best about popular culture, television viewers, and, I daresay, humanity itself. In the 1960s, the fandom latched onto the notion that with cooperation and understanding, peace and prosperity could become a universal ideal. To that end, fans have seen the (then) far-fetched notion of a multi-racial incorporation of individuals who advance based on their skills, not adherence to the old boys club. Just consider the bridge of the Classic Enterprise: Black, Asian, WASP, Jew (insofar as Misters Nemoy and Shatner are Jewish), Russian, and Southern American (this last one being its own category in some circles). Aside from Uhura being made to wear a skirt to work everyday, all are blindly equal. This is what Trek fans have embraced.</div>
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Then there's the seedy underbelly--and underbelly fed by the 1980s glut of Trek. They were high times then: films every few years, the start of <i>The Next Generation</i>, and merchandising. Ah, the merchandising that was eaten up by any loyal fan. Toys weren't for children--they were collectors items! Pocket Books wasn't for pedestrian paperbacks--they were for semi-official Trek novels, of which one needed to read... all of them! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's an Admiral now.</td></tr>
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And then there were the fan clubs. <i>Hello, my name is Matt, and I'm a recovering Star Trek fan club member</i>. I know of what I speak, having inauspiciously served "aboard" the USS Challenger for a time in my pre-driving teens. My parents, I'm sure, were thrilled to drive me and my friend to our monthly meetings. And what a bunch it was, meeting in an empty, cold, sparse first aid building. In retrospect, it was like the worst up-and-coming religion ever, just kind of sitting around and praising great god Trek. Captain Bob was engaged or dating the first officer; she, in turn, seemed to have some rather serious illness. The typical meeting started with some sort of whole group "thing" (perhaps a report of whoever had gone to the latest convention), and there would be a look ahead to upcoming things (probably the upcoming convention). Then we'd break into "section time," or some such name. I was in engineering. The... sigh... yes, I'll say it... "chief of engineering" was in the process of overseeing our ships... sigh... refit. How one refits an imaginary ship, and how it takes longer than a moment, I do not know. I do recall that he was dead set on the ship having four engines (which I'd venture gives you little benefit but more work for the engineering crew), and demanded that the new boat be painted in gunmetal gray. He spat hate talking about how the stupid show dared light its ships, claiming that the bad guys couldn't shoot what they couldn't see. I, as an early teen, dared not point out that a) the bad guys used sensors that detected more than the visual spectrum and b) it was just a show. He further stated that he had never watched TNG, as it was impossible to build a ship with curved, fluid lines. I dared not point out that the whole of Star Trek was rather silly, from a nuts-and-bots, realistic point of view: aliens, transporters, warp drive, etc. </div>
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I stopped going to Challenger meetings shortly before my 13th birthday. You see, at the time there was a funny television program called <i>Saturday Night Live</i>. I think that it has no relation to the unfunny show of the same name on now. Patrick Stewart hosted, and even though the show was in decline at the time, I as a Trek fan, watched. It wasn't that great. The "erotic cake" bit seemed like the future of SNL: drawn out and stupid. But here's the kicker: everyone at Challenger saw the episode. Live. The night before our Challenger meeting. And you know what everyone did after "section time?" We went into the next room to watch Patrick Stewart on SNL. For the second time. In a little over 12 hours. </div>
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This was also the time that I stopped being a part of "Starfleet," the national officially-sanctioned Trek fan club. They had the most stupid of controversies: some Vice Admiral (running for election as Head of Starfleet or whatever stupid title was bestowed upon the president of the fan club made) made a joke about Klingons. Pan-de-mon-ium broke out. She (a woman of color, ironically) was branded a racist. In classic "how not to handle a crisis" mode, she first fought the onslaught, then gave a half-assed excuse (she was speaking "in character as a movie-Trek-era person," then ultimately had to give up her aspirations to be Head of Starfleet. The pound of flesh was her resignation from the organization.</div>
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Thus, then, is what makes Trek the mother load for crazy-ass fans. Born of an aspiration for a better world, its fans at the height of the franchise would meet in cold first aid buildings to watch a lousy show because it had "a guy from Star Trek."</div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-30484036596053075182013-12-09T16:10:00.000-05:002013-12-09T16:10:00.507-05:00A Beloved Graphic Novel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">
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It's not often that something entertaining can truly blow you away--that "I can't breathe because I never saw it coming" sort of moment in a story. If you saw <i>The Sixth Sense</i> without being spoiled, that's probably one time. The <i>LOST</i> episode "Walkabout" comes to mind as well, though some wise few (me) called the zinger about 20 minutes in.</div>
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At the top of my list, though, is the graphic novel <i>Kingdom Come</i>. To borrow a line from old J.R.R., it is precious to me. The basic story is this: ten years from the perpetual "now" of DC Comics, Superman has retired, our well-known heroes have aged or moved on, and a new, more violent breed of superhero has taken to protect--and wantonly carouse--in our world. We quickly learn that this violent "protection" has lead to a nuclear disaster of catastrophic proportions, leading in turn to a showdown literally of Biblical proportions between goodies and baddies, humans and superhumans alike. The narration of the story is set by Norman McKay, a minister whose faith is slipping after the nuclear disaster. He is led by the Spectre, a fairly familiar DC character able to transcend time and space. Together it's a Scrooge-and-a-ghost dynamic which, conveniently enough, lets us flit from hither and yon across the globe to see the story unfold. </div>
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Two other points should be made. First, all the artwork has been painted by Alex Ross; second, it was originally released, as graphic novels often are, in four issues. When I first read it, the former was apparent, as I was aware of Mr. Ross' work in the <i>Marvels</i> graphic novel. As for the second point... for that I was not prepared.</div>
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I mistook the first issue--coming in at about 50 pages in a paperback (i.e. not comic paper) issue--as the only issue, as a one-shot vision of an alternate future. McKay sees some horrible visions to open the story, visions of Biblical gloom and doom. As the rest of the story unfolds, and we see fun and interesting ways that familiar characters are being "re-presented." Norman's visions are largely forgotten, and if remembered, relegated to the dustbin of artistic flourish. At the climax of the story (in the issue, anyway), Superman returns, saving the day and putting the new non-heroes on their place. It's stunning and amazing and cheer-worthy, a truly cinematic moment made out of static art.</div>
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And on the next page, Norman's visions of apocalypse return, ending the story, telling us that there's much, much more to come.</div>
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I love <i>Kingdom Come</i>. I wrote my college thesis on it, comprising a whopping 30 pages of critical analysis on it, arguing that it deserves to be elevated to the realm of postmodern fiction. </div>
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The climax of the novel is the showdown between Superman--but a Superman who is older, one step slower, and who turned his back on humanity for ten years--and Captain Marvel. For those not in the know, the basic DC backstory for Captain Marvel is that Billy Batson, a 10 year old boy, can yell "Shazam!" and call down magic thunder to turn him into the powerful adult hero. In the course of <i>Kingdom Come</i>, Billy Batson grew up under the brainwashing employ (and vaguely-suggested sexual abuse) of--wait for it--Lex Luthor. Ultimately, Marvel goes rogue from goodies and baddies alike, being an X factor as fighting moves closer and closer to Armageddon. He is the only one powerful enough to stop Superman. He is the harbinger of death. It leads to the showdown of a lifetime, that of all our heroes and villains fighting towards the very brink of their end.</div>
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And that is just about the biggest game that you could count on: every single character you've ever cared about (at least in the DC universe) battling lest they be, quite simple, no more. </div>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-67481568093332812572013-12-02T16:09:00.000-05:002013-12-02T16:09:00.134-05:00Cringing At Trek; or, When Riker Turned A Gay Alien Straight<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<i>Star Trek: The Next Generation</i>'s fifth season is punctuated by a litany of episodes <u>About Something</u>: politics, rape, suicide, language, abortion. In "The Outcast," Trek takes a sci-fi look at homosexuality. The J'naii are presented as a genderless society who occasionally have members that exist in an alien closet with secret desires of being one gender and being attracted to the opposite.</div>
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I remember watching this episode in 1992. As a 12-year-old, it wasn't exactly fun to sit through what is ultimately a heavy-handed missive on gender and sexual orientation. In one scene, the alien Soren (played by Melinda Culea of <i>A-Team</i> fame (a female actress was required by the producers because Soren would end up a-kissin' Riker)) asks about the differences of gender. Seeing Jonathan Frakes bridge the gap between Rikerian charm and a clinical explanation of "male insemination and females carrying the baby" and "the intimacy of procreation can be quite enjoyable" was, to say the least, not fun to watch with my family.</div>
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There are further scenes which serve the story, but in a clunky manner. Sorren comes out to Riker, stating that Soren's preference is female, and her attraction is to males. She describes how this is a secret one identifies at a certain age, and that it is a tightly-guarded secret. She tells the story of a classmate in school who was maligned at school for being male, how he was beaten up in school for being that way, and how the solution was mental whoosy-whatsit programming to erase his culturally-unacceptable thoughts. </div>
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Ultimately, Soren and Riker share some secret canoodeling in the woods; Soren is caught, brought before a court, and gives a rousing speech about how she isn't a deviant, and how "the state" cannot dictate how people love each other. Her dialogue ends the act on a high note. After the commercial break concludes, the judge basically says, "Great, now that we know you're this way, we know for sure to take you to the mental whoosy-whatsit programmer."</div>
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Trek has a long tradition of boldly taking viewers to new cultural territory--the first interracial kiss on television between Kirk and Uhura being an oft-cited watershed moment. (Indeed, that the modern movie Spock and Uhura kiss was of no cultural significance, and that movie Spock is played by a gay man has become a mere cultural footnote.) Yet in "The Outcast," Trek half-asses it. The gay metaphor is so thinly set that it isn't a metaphor (living in secret, bullying at school, "deviant urges," etc). The show wanted to tackle homosexuality, but gave itself "takeaways" and wiggle room. Soren is normal by our standards, whereas normalcy is gender neutrality by J'naii standards. It's not, the show seems to say with showmanship, <i>about</i> anything, just the ideas between the two made-up cultures! </div>
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I'd also argue that it's a bit of a counter message to have Riker be so damned dashing that Soren voices her sexual orientation in his manly, musky presence. Granted, her dialogue establishes that she's felt this way all her life, but it takes someone of sufficient masculinity to out her femininity. Couldn't that be evidence for the reverse: that with sufficient mojo, Riker could turn a straight man gay? Or a gay woman straight? </div>
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I suppose a counter argument was that the Kirk/Uhura kiss had equal wiggle room, as in "Plato's Stepchildren" they are forced to do so. That said, it was 1968, the height of the civil rights movement--the year MLK was shot! The Kirk/Uhura episode also was championed by Gene Roddenberry, who locked horns with the network; NBC wanted a "non-kiss take" to show in the South. Nichele Nichols and William Shatner, wanting to support Roddenberry and the idea in general, gave them the non-kiss take--with over the top (for Shatner!) acting, flubbed lines, crossed eyes, and other unusable takes. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disappointed.</td></tr>
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Thus, I suppose it is rather sadly fitting that "The Outcast" would air a few months after Roddenberry's death (though to be fair, his participation in <i>Next Gen</i> had waned since the second season). There was no one to champion a proper Star Trek take on homosexuality--no one to fight the studio, other producers, and the world. And thus "The Outcast," while brave in its attempt, ultimately falls flat--an outcast itself. </div>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-91226803239819028182013-11-25T16:07:00.000-05:002013-11-25T16:07:00.627-05:00Deus vs. Diablo Ex Machina<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"In this episode, I die. Wait, what?"</td></tr>
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Once upon a time, long long ago, the Greeks invented "deus ex machina," or literally "god out of the machine." It was a handy-dandy device: got your hero pinned to a wall by the baddie? <b>Boom</b>, Zeus comes out of nowhere, strikes down the baddie, and victory is won for the good.<br />
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Nowadays, it's looked down upon as a cheap trick, as the heavy hand of the sloppy writer. Can't kill off your unstoppable Martians in <i>War of the Worlds</i>? Take everyone to the brink of destruction, the <b>boom</b>, microscopic life off the alien invaders. (I'd argue that it isn't a completely sloppy ending, but hey.) I wonder what makes someone write a deus ex machina ending. Lack of talent? A great story that needs an exit? The constraints of time/energy/budget?<br />
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Take, for example, the <i>Star Trek: The Next Generation</i> episode "Ethics." Now, to be fair, this is a season five episode--the season where they tackled: the after-effects of rape, metaphor in language, Romulan politics, childbirth, death of both parents, ghettoization, addiction, and abortion. In the first half of the season. In "Ethics," they added another warm-and-fuzzy to the pile: Worf, "permanently" paralyzed in an accident, ponders suicide as a sane and rational answer.<br />
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To be fair, the show deserves credit for jumping into such a grave topic (ha!), and for doing so in a manner which wholeheartedly fits into the show. Who else would consider the 24th Century equivalent to robot braces a travesty and non-option if not Worf, the outsider to the Gene Roddenberry enlightenment? However, the show quickly paints itself into a corner.<br />
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In a scene about halfway between the accident and the ending (deus ex machina spoiler: he lives! and walks!), a guest doctor muses about the fact that Klingon's have redundant systems: extra ribs, extra livers, it's all set up "in line" so that if one goes, the other takes over. The show quickly covers its deus ex machinan tracks by scoffing at the Klingon body, saying that it's actually more that can go wrong, i.e. double chance for liver cancer (my words, not theirs).<br />
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The show then spends a lot of time debating the appropriate nature of suicide; it does a very nice job of looking at it from multiple angles, with different characters acting organically and sharing appropriate and thought-provoking views. Worf ultimately decides to try a risky thingus-magingus where they [tech tech tech] a spine transplant or something. A criticism that Ron Moore has had of the Trek universe is that oftentimes they will out-tech the situation. Here, again to the show's credit, they don't: the spinal laser scan re-make-ify doesn't work, and Worf dies. That is to say that the new spine is working great, but because a "dramatic countdown until brain death" counts all the way down, Worf dies. Literally.<br />
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Then we get the skies opening (figuratively) and <b>boom</b>, right after the teary-eyed "We did all we could" scene, the "Son, your father is dead" scene <i>and</i> the "I wanna see my Daddy!" scene, Worf comes back to life. Why? That redundant system, it must have a redundant neural pathway that lets the brain restart! I guess he also had a redundant lung, because with his brain down, he hasn't been breathing for a while either.<br />
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Clear-cut deus ex machina. They couldn't <i>not</i> take the surgery all the way; then it would have just been tech to save the day. So they went one step further: Zeus/nature/genetics/mysteries of alien medicine, <i>that's</i> what saved the day.<br />
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Boo hiss. Don't the writers know that the "god" in the "god in the machine" has become hackneyed and lousy? That it's turned into the devil of writing?<br />
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Hey, at least we had a salient debate about the pros and cons of end-of-life care... right?Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-78495524419740321312013-11-18T16:06:00.000-05:002013-11-18T16:06:00.151-05:00Be The Wyld Stallyn<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and party on, dude!</td></tr>
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Film, at its greatest, is not merely a series of pictures in motion; no, it is all. It can capture life, death, love, hate, the highest highs, and the lowest lows. When the lights of a theater dim, there is an expectant moment in the darkness where anything--everything--is possible. Thus, it is in film that we can look to a pair of unlikely heroes, whose journey teaches us not only to strive to the best of our virtues, but to be better human beings.<br />
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I speak of course of William S. Preston, Esq, and Theodore Logan, two characters of cinema who are synonymous with the well-earned title The Great Ones. They inhabit a film which acts as a modern-day fairytale through which a new degree of human sympathy and understanding might be achieved. I speak of course of <i>Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure</i>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/idz70hx-WGA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Excellent it is indeed, for in addition to serving as a primer for Western Civilization, it also reminds us of a virtue held in common by Jesus Christ, the Prophet Mohammad, Moses the Teacher, and Gautama Buddha: that of being common. Bill and Ted do sip from the proverbial cup of a carpenter, being mistaken for drifty misanthropes particular to <i>Cannabis sativa</i>. This is not the case, as it is revealed to them by the prophetic Rufus that the music of their band, the Wyld Stallyns, will be the core of a transformatiive philosophic shift in humanity towards peace and understanding.<br />
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The central tenet of this philosophy is, we are told, "be excellent to each other." Is this not the basic idea of all philosophy? Is it not true that, if we all were to follow but this simple phrase for one day, it would be the greatest day of humanity?<br />
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-26748904165136952792013-11-11T11:11:00.000-05:002013-11-11T11:11:00.653-05:00Holli Would... But She Shouldn't<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go on, look closer. Mee-oww!</td></tr>
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It was the early spring of 1992, and on the back of every--and I mean <i>every</i>--comic book that made its was through my house had the exact same back cover advertisement. "Holli Would If She Could," it read. The message was clear: something seedy, something dark, something sensual. The things we heard about in health class. </div>
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That <i>Cool World </i>would unquestionably be the greatest thing EVER was just taken for granted. That, at 12 years old, I'd unquestionably have to wait until it appeared at Prime Time Video that fall--at the earliest--was also taken for granted. I mean, look at that poster! You don't have to be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desmond_Morris">Desmond Morris</a> to decode the innate sexuality of Holli in that poster; nor do you have to be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Campbell">Joseph Campbell</a> to decode the setting (snakes show danger, the door behind her is her "entrance," and so forth). </div>
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Indeed, it was so simply known that the movie was the sort of thing that one watched alone that, when in July of that year my brother shystered my parents into taking him and a friend to the movie, buying tickets, getting them into the theater, then going away, I promptly torpedoed it by grabbing a comic, confronting my parents in the hall, and showing them the tagline. "Holli would if she could," I said. "They aren't talking about going to a party." My brother was crushed.</div>
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It was years later when I finally sat down to watch <i>Cool World</i>. Those of us who have been to even one wedding have likely heard the reading about "setting aside childish things." Whenever I did see the film, it was with vague interest. I was then living in the world of the Internet. The true sense of titillation was gone... but still, I sat down feeling like it was almost forbidden.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>perfect</i> first library!</td></tr>
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The first thing that strikes you is that the film is by Ralph Bakshi... of <i>The Hobbit</i> animated film. I have fond memories of going to see <i>The Hobbit</i> when I was 3 or 4. I had a front row seat at the Point Pleasant Beach brand of the Ocean County Library. A converted house, it's a creaky, warm, lovely little building, the perfect place to see literature on film. </div>
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But back to <i>Cool World</i>. The second thing that strikes you is that it's much more... animated than the poster suggested. It isn't Jessica Rabbit animation, it's mostly Roger Rabbit goofiness. At least, until Holli appears. </div>
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I've never liked <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rotoscoping">rotoscoping</a>. I think there's something unnatural about how natural it looks--animation can extend itself to the little nooks and crannies of its imagined physical world, with stretch and squash being prime examples. To see Holli appear, bosom a-wobbling, butt a-shaking, it was all wonderfully gelatinous... but also so tethered to earth. </div>
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Think again of Jessica rabbit. Her figure <i>literally</i> would kill a human. Add to that an intentional unnatural bounce (her breasts bounce up when they should boune down, and visa versa). That's the stuff of untethered animation. </div>
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Yet as sultry as Jessica Rabbit is, I think the two clips capture something about subtlety, and certainly sexuality. Jessica is all about the slow sizzle, the long play before, and ultimately has a sense of girl power. Let's not forget that she <i>almost</i> kisses Eddie Valliant, before "backing off." Heard at 1:54 in the clip, just before her final sung word, is the quiet grunt of a man off screen. It isn't the sound of completion--it's the sound of stopping right before.</div>
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Holli, on the other hand, is not subtle. She's clearly a tease to Gabriel Byrne's character (who, ironically, is the most artificial-looking thing in the scene). She clearly isn't far from screwing or stripping for a reason. Were she a real person, she would unquestionably have had a long stretch of time in foster homes with men like Kate's <a href="http://lostpedia.wikia.com/wiki/Wayne_Janssen">father</a> from <i>LOST</i>. (Jessica, on the other hand, was probably did <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/What_Kate_Did">what Kate did</a> more than once in her life.)</div>
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Ultimately, Holli is the perfect metaphor for what makes <i>Cool World</i> unwatchable tripe: no sense of of the subtle or sublime. Every shot of animation is leeringly goofy, when not overwrought with the visual smell of sex-and-candy. The set production, when not animated, try to cross a visual style between real and animated. It's like trying to mix a tiger and a lion. What you get isn't either, and isn't pretty. As noted, even the <i>acting</i> from real-life, pretty good <i>actors</i> is awful! </div>
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Bizarre character choices. Wooden acting. Idiotic story. And a box office failure.</div>
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Holli, it seems, simply shouldn't have tried.</div>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-48721959313024193772013-11-04T16:02:00.000-05:002013-11-04T16:02:00.346-05:00Remember it, Jake. It's "Chinatown."Roman Polanski is an awful human being.<br />
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One needs to say that ahead of any other reference to Roman Polanski, if only to establish a) knowledge of his insidious crime, and b) that we all agree his crime was unquestionably vile. (I will add that the HBO documentary <i>Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired</i> does reveal that his trial was a <i>literally scripted</i> at times by the headline-seeking judge. This does not discount that Roman Polanski is an awful human being.)<br />
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At any rate, now that I've established that we all agree that Polanski's personal decisions were horrendous, I'll mention another name.<br />
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Jack Nicholson.<br />
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I'll just repeat at this point that Roman Polanski is an awful human being, because when one mentions Polanski and Nicholson <i>together</i>, it tends to be a reminder that Polanski's wretched crime was perpetrated at Nicholson's house, with the latter not being anywhere near there.<br />
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Now that we've <i>really</i> established the awfulness, let's focus on a cinematic masterpiece that resulted in a collaboration of Polanski directing and Nicholson acting.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtRRSe9-wsn4GI_Z8KbTjdATqdHNsAbiZhkiVeNBGNfKIRHxBwzjTAaED6Q0a6-4Mspgz_Nk4B0dFNomkWRapY8XEWldngatG0L85fKTaOYtnio9qNX01FMZ4UYtLavhs2CwRt4iDY8AG/s1600/chinatown_jack_nicholson-800x535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtRRSe9-wsn4GI_Z8KbTjdATqdHNsAbiZhkiVeNBGNfKIRHxBwzjTAaED6Q0a6-4Mspgz_Nk4B0dFNomkWRapY8XEWldngatG0L85fKTaOYtnio9qNX01FMZ4UYtLavhs2CwRt4iDY8AG/s320/chinatown_jack_nicholson-800x535.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J. J. Gittes after the knife scene</td></tr>
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1974's <i>Chinatown</i> is a movie that I've loved since I first saw it, which was probably around 1999. Inspired to learn more about the then-new-to-me genre of film noir by <i>Dark City</i> and its amazing commentary track by Roger Ebert (who called it one of the year's top ten films), I scoured the library and local rental establishments (all of the latter being gone now) for more examples of this most-wonderful slice of film.<br />
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<i>Chinatown</i> has all that makes film noir great: a murky world, half-known motivations, a damsel in distress... or is she a femme fatale? As the film opens, Nicholson's Jake Gittes is wrapping up another private eye case of... snapping pictures of a cheating wife. (The husband is played by <i>Rocky</i>'s Paulie.) His next case is more of the same: Mrs. Evelyn Mulwray hires him to take dirty pictures of her naughty husband. Gittes does, and Mr. Mulwray, who works for the LA Department of Water and Power, is caught and humiliated in the papers.<br />
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Then the <i>real</i> Mrs. Evelyn Mulwray confronts Gittes, and we see through his eyes the slow descent into the relatively real-life murky world of politics and power in 1937 Los Angeles. To be a bit more specific, it's the world of water rights--a drought is on, but it seems the water department is part of a conspiracy. I'm sure you're reading this saying, "Wow, water rights? Yeeehaw!" The investigation into the water department, while largely reflecting the real LA of the first part of the 20th Century, is merely a backbone for Gittes to investigate those who are behind it. As an example, a proposal for a sequel to the film would have had Gittes investigating the conspiracy to end public transportation in LA--a story precisely recycled in <i>Who Framed Roger Rabbit</i>. The analogy is that <i>Roger Rabbit</i> isn't "about" the Cloverleaf conspiracy, but rather the world that the conspiracy takes place in... just like <i>Chinatown</i>.<br />
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What makes this film so compelling is the film noir framework in which Polanski so masterfully operates. Gittes, the quasi-stereotypical film noir gumshoe detective is unphased by the violence around him, as well as the increasing threat to him as he probes deeper and deeper into the powerful people of the city. When Polanski isn't filming in perfect 1930s locations--every car, every prop, every costume as we imagine it should be--then he is taking us into nighttime shadows, unanswered questions, little clues which gnaw at us only when they need to. Polanski wisely tells the story from the point of view of Gittes--we learn every clue just as he does, and when Gittes is knocked unconscious at the end of a rather remarkable chase scene in an orange grove (Nicholson appears to actually be driving with the camera in the back seat, speeding between lines of trees, throwing the car into reverse, and gunning it), the camera fades to black.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfchsLeGo8IfJX8Lhy1L7BX3x5iFPFfAcgtmXU3YSA-YnRfmw_0-5EKxCwVFrOLLu9j39DCLzaX0bGhUvUjpuIzYv5LhZIasqMHQLsRFjsHHTFAHpnGLFiNVg2N7LrhleOGSJWBXdNf3j/s1600/chinatown-polanski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfchsLeGo8IfJX8Lhy1L7BX3x5iFPFfAcgtmXU3YSA-YnRfmw_0-5EKxCwVFrOLLu9j39DCLzaX0bGhUvUjpuIzYv5LhZIasqMHQLsRFjsHHTFAHpnGLFiNVg2N7LrhleOGSJWBXdNf3j/s320/chinatown-polanski.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polanski, ironically, doesn't play a nice guy.</td></tr>
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<i>Chinatown</i> also has a moment that I usually fast-forward through: Gittes, confronted by thugs who are on to him, has a switchblade stuck up his nose. Polanski plays the thug with a knife--and slices. Gittes spends the next chunk of the film with slowly diminishing bandages on his face, until it's just stitches. At any rate, it's horrifying. <br />
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For the uninitiated, the title refers to Gittes' time as a cop in LA's Chinatown where, it is said, one tried to do very little. This is because language and cultural barriers oftentimes meant that the "normal rules" didn't apply.<br />
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I won't spoil the ending for you, other than to say that the happy ending was rejected soundly. It ends like a punch to the gut: hard, harsh, complete. Suffice it to say that the final appearance of the character of Noah Cross (you'll thank me that I haven't explained more about him) is cringe-worthy, and for all the wrong reasons.<br />
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We also learn that it isn't just among lowly Chinese immigrants in 1930s LA that the "normal rules" don't apply. Sometimes it's for those at the other end of the spectrum--sometimes the ones at the very top win. Sometimes they win easily, and with little fuss... despite some private eye nosing around.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLrp-vGmx0LwBLHCaPg7eAvkxnM46nra3hxwTFd0juQs_vg0qjKbrAVAG4kZKpK4i9QQ_tCvgNP6TR8EB1M1ADuULE38MaP2nsn0IO8AZXGTAP_0ITOAv4YqWPewPa0YYSPMD6um-fYrH/s1600/chinatown-final.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLrp-vGmx0LwBLHCaPg7eAvkxnM46nra3hxwTFd0juQs_vg0qjKbrAVAG4kZKpK4i9QQ_tCvgNP6TR8EB1M1ADuULE38MaP2nsn0IO8AZXGTAP_0ITOAv4YqWPewPa0YYSPMD6um-fYrH/s400/chinatown-final.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown."</td></tr>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-13222686642916598632013-10-28T16:00:00.000-04:002013-10-28T16:00:01.631-04:00Yub Nub: Celebrate The Love!<div style="font-family: inherit;">
Any story that will last is about "us." Regardless of race, gender, creed, time, or place, the stories that we tell approach universality. David and Goliath can be inspiration for a middle school girl being bullied at school, and King Kong and Ann can remind of the wordless joy that is being in love. The same is true for any coming of age story: the best ones transport us back to a time and place where we were starting to become an adult, with the world starting to look larger with trepidation and smaller with confidence.</div>
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_campbell">Joseph Campbell, </a>the vaunted American mythologist, even has his intellectual DNA in the greatest coming of age story of our time. George Lucas has said "I modified my next draft [of <i>Star Wars</i>] according to what I'd been learning about classical motifs" from Campbell's <i>Hero With A Thousand Faces</i>. (Those so interested can read more <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_campbell#Film">here</a>.) To boil the weighty, deep, and luxurious<i> </i>(original) Star Wars Trilogy to its barest of bones, boyish Luke Skywalker is pushed into manhood by circumstances outside his control; he must confront loneliness, arrogance, love, fear, and self-determination to become a man. In the trilogy, we see him grow from whiny white-clad farmboy to confident black-clad monastic warrior. It is, for us, a mythic yet vaguely universal path from childhood to adulthood, from wobbly immaturity to stable adulthood.</div>
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Except for the damn yub nub.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Audacity of Yub-Hope</i></td></tr>
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<i>Return of the Jedi</i>, which sees Luke attaining the mantle of adulthood, ends, of course, with adults partying with walking teddy bears. In its original release, everyone sits around, sings "yub nub," has an Ewokian barbeque (hold the Solo, thanks), and pats themselves on the back for toppling the Imperial government. To be fair, the Special Edition does intercut freedom celebrations from across the now-former-Empire, including the iconic toppling of Palpatine's statue on Coruscant. </div>
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Yet... there we are... manly Luke, having made peace with the ghosts of his past (literally), able to now step into the world with proper knowledge of all that is around him (no more kissing the future Mrs. Solo, alas).... and he's hanging with midgets stuffed into stuffed animals. </div>
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Now I know, the Ewoks are the Lucasian analogy to the Vietnamese, who by local knowledge and earthy determination turned aside the imperialist Americans. They are meant to remind us that even the least likely of peoples has in them the desire for self-determination and freedom, the audacity of hope. </div>
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Does Lucas portend what comes after the highest heights of manhood? Does the ending of <i>Jedi</i> foretell of some second act of adulthood? Many marriage ceremonies refer to 1 Corinthians, which speaks of giving up childish things. Did the Lucas of the early 1980s, his family falling apart through divorce of his wife and split custody of their daughter, wonder if the heights of manhood pass all too soon, that childish things must be embraced again? (Is that what caused <i>Howard the Duck</i>?!?!) </div>
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Or perhaps it is just sloppy storytelling, the product of a man defined by Star Wars, leaving it behind him, forever and ever, amen (or not). Think of all the iconic images of the original Star Wars Trilogy: the giant Star Destroyer, twin suns, Darth Vader, the Death Star, X-Wings, the Millennium Falcon, Hoth, lightsabers, Bespin, "I know," Jabba's Palace, walkers... and we are left with teddy bears muppets that sing? </div>
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Order me all you want, Mr. Lucas, for I cannot "celebrate the love (celebrate the love)." All I can do, with jaw set and foul words upon my breath, is moanfully utter the two words that most soil Star Wars.</div>
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Yub Nub.<br />
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-75041903927916372712013-10-21T16:00:00.000-04:002013-10-21T16:00:00.971-04:00Whose Prime Directive?<div style="font-family: inherit;">
An oft-used bit of Star Trek legalese is the Prime Directive, which states that Starfleet must not interfere with the social order of any non-Federation planet. Also known as Starfleet General Order One, it is, behind the scenes, a writers tool which prevents the franchise from beaming down a small army and taking over all because the captain's beagle was lost on the planet's surface. It also reflects a certain enlightened perspective of the show--that "we" (America, the West, and so forth) do not impress our important but self-held and ultimately local values upon a different culture. (Alas, George W. Bush, that you weren't a Trek fan!) In the course of the franchise, it also allowed various Starfleet personnel to interact and preserve new life forms and new civilizations.</div>
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However, an interesting comment has made me wonder as to the scope of the Prime Directive. In <i>Star Trek: The Next Generation</i>'s "Half a Life," the guest-alien Dr. Timicin is a respected scientist from his world who, it is revealed, has reached the age of 60. At that age, on his world, one says goodbye to his or her family and friends then commits ritual suicide. As the episode touches upon the heady ideas of elder care and family obligations, the indefatigable Lwaxana Troi rails against the practice, despite all Starfleet officers agreeing personally but refusing to intercede due to the Prime Directive. At one moment, when told she cannot beam down to the surface to raise cain, she states to her Starfleet officer daughter, "It's your Prime Directive, not mine!"</div>
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Hence, I leave myself wondering to whom the Prime Directive applies. Yes, it has been defined as a Starfleet-only rule. Does this mean that Joe the Trader, in the 24th Century equivalent of an 18 wheeler, has full access to find himself on some armpit planet and rule it like a king? Or to impose preferential eugenics like that seen from the people of <a href="http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Let_That_Be_Your_Last_Battlefield_%28episode%29">Cheron</a>? </div>
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Star Trek is, above all else, about optimism in the human condition. That optimism is usually the first thing presented, sometimes to the fault of the franchise. Thus we rarely see the seedy underbelly of the Federation; such things are not part of Gene Roddenberry's view of the future. Yet with Lwaxana's simple statement--"it is your Prime Directive, not mine!"--I must wonder what future an unscrupulous (or unscrupulously principled?) Federation citizen might make in some quiet corner of the galaxy with a world and indigenous culture to make all their own. </div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-6530180699078410442013-10-14T15:57:00.000-04:002013-10-14T15:57:01.077-04:00Zounds!: Batman and Shakespeare<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">‘Zounds!:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Pitiable Modern Sensibilities and Thus the Limitations Placed Upon Twenty-First Century Analysis of Shakespeare;<br style="font-family: inherit;" />or, How Batman and Robin Enter Into Four Plays by The Master</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Irrepressibly, irresistibly, to consider in any context the phrase “sidekick,” I must do so through the sum of my experiences. In a general sense, of course, the timeless function of a secondary sidekick to a primary character remains the same: the sidekick aides, shapes, assists, and “has the back,” as modern parlance puts it, of the primary character. Modern parlance indeed, for it is the modern world that has shaped the understanding of sidekicks to not only myself but to generations. For this modern and lost world I cannot apologize, for I did not make it; I am simply the small product of its indifferent values. Alas then, my notion of the ideal sidekick aiding the ideal chief must then be that of the Boy Wonder supporting the Dark Knight. How awful indeed that I must be bound by a culture so dead that pulpy paperbacks might have so skewed what once was a pure and promising mind. Having no other route to take, I must then try and find a heady (which is to say “of the mind,” not capricious or giddy) route by which two Caped Crusaders might lead me to something larger, stuff of proper intellectual reflection. How then does my ideal sidekick act? First one must acknowledge who these two really are. By this, I mean not to explore some silly back story about a murder of a millionaire and his wife, a murder that leaves a vengeful boy to grow into a man and fight crime under cape and cowl aided by a young orphaned trapeze artist; no, instead, I mean to delve into the larger facet of life that these two, in circumstances that we can understand, operate in. By virtue of the fact that the elder has taken custodianship of the younger, both are now of the same social and economic class. If any worthwhile side to the Dynamic Duo can be pondered, it is that their evolution by many hands has allowed for a shaping that higher, nay, better works do not experience. Envisioned to initially be a simple arrangement that would allow for the senior detective to wonder aloud, explain, and elucidate, the presence of a sidekick has evolved into a relationship that, as pitiable and trite popular culture, has so flowed with that culture. From a mere “boss and sidekick” situation, the two have been shown to include the junior being hot-headed to his detriment (indeed, to his shocking death), disagreement concerning personal versus professional directions, and even the dispelling of dubious airs of homosexuality. (This last part came as an issue as the text, pulpy as it may be, made the sorry and sadly obligatory popular-culture jump to television; the addition of an elderly aunt character to the household was meant to divert thoughts that the detective and his charge were close beyond what age and, at the time, social barriers might permit.) </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="font-family: inherit;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Finally then, the question must be asked: is there any value in this sidekick arrangement by which those that should know better dress up as flying mammals and use their wits and lovely gadgets to sidestep the law enforcement processes and fight law-breaking through vigilantism? Perhaps, and the key just might be the many hands that have crafted these flash-in-the-pan heroes. With so many minds having had small impacts in the direction of the myth, if one might dare compliment the Dynamic Duo by calling their collective stories “myth,” it might be assumed that some cultural tendencies have been imprinted. Further, looking back to the true and lasting pillars of culture, cultural tendencies might emerge that would allow this meager writer a means to take the chaff so as to find the true and golden wheat. Timorously then, I turn to Shakespeare, that his works might give me guidance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> It seems to me to be a logical stepping stone to move from pulp publications so often to be thought the stuff of teenagers to Shakespeare’s tragedy about teenagers, Romeo and Juliet. (Indeed, I would argue that for all of its conventional flaws, creative missteps, and lackluster critical acclaim, it is because Shakespeare captures the universality of that age that the play finds itself beloved in the heart above the mind.) Romeo and his sidekick Mercutio have, for all intents and purposes, a traditional “boss and sidekick” relationship. Never is there any question that Romeo is the superior in rank, social status, wealth, prestige, power, and the like. Thus, being in his circle a leader (and logically supposed to be the future leader of his family after his father’s passing), Mercutio acts as his attack dog that is a station beneath his master. This is not to suggest that where Romeo might be nobility, Mercutio is middle-class; rather, within the same larger class setting, one is superior to the other (rather like the arrangement that our caped friends from above have). Where some hypothetical romance-free Romeo surely is a man of action, a man who can do battle, as well as a man of thoughts, Mercutio is more so a brother-in-arms, a rowdy manly-man whose testosteronic thoughts of action come before acts of contemplation. This is immediately evident when, in the fourth scene of the second act Mercutio says that Tybalt is “the / courageous captain of compliments” who fights not just with studied stiffness (20-21) but with the airy conceit of one who is “antic, lisping, [and] affecting” (28). In short, as the “attack dog” for the presumably normally somewhat-intellectual Romeo, Mercutio despises Tybalt not only along lines of conflict (previous wrongs, age-old familial differences, and so forth), but along lines of intellect: Mercutio, the loyal sidekick, hates everything about his master’s enemy. This line of thinking continues in act III scene i when Tybalt et al confront (and eventually fight) Romeo, Mercutio, et al. Tybalt respectfully and elegantly states “Gentlemen, good den, a word with one of you” (38) to which Mercutio bitingly responds “And but one word with one of us? Couple it / with something, make it a word and a blow” (39-40). Yet Mercutio’s role is not merely one of us-versus-them aggression: he exists also to reinforce his superior when Romeo falters in the role of being himself. Seeing Romeo’s heartbrokenness having been fixed (albeit by hidden romance), Mercutio cordially reinforces Romeo’s stolid masculinity by saying “why, is not this better now than groaning / for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo” (emphasis mine, 88-90). Lastly, it is Mercutio’s role as sidekick to be the “point man” concerning access to his master. When the Nurse comes to speak with Romeo, clearly bearing neither ill will nor weapons, Mercutio begins by verbally attacking her once she asks for her fan to cool her face, saying “hide her face, for her fan’s / the fairer face” (II.iv.107-108); similarly, as she is leaving he further insults her by announcing her “a bawd, a bawd, a bawd!” (129) before continuing the thought in song. The very great sense that one gets concerning Mercutio is that without Romeo, the former would hardly be a substantial person; certainly, there is little to make the character palatable without the star of the play.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Perhaps the same could be said for the substance that makes up Celia in As You Like It. To my mind, while much is interesting concerning Celia as sidekick to Rosalind, the former is again a character that might do poorly if given her own spin-off venue. Theirs is a relationship which is clearly Rosalind-centered, as opposed to a balanced relationship. (Here is as good a place as any to note the common thread that romantic and/or sexual pairings between Rosalind and Celia, and Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, have be leveled; logic and close readings of intent naturally show these concerns to be unfounded). What places Rosalind as superior is, in fact, nature itself. She is the daughter of the deposed Duke Senior; Celia is the daughter of the self-imposed Duke Frederick. In keeping with the notions of the time, such a deposition was contrary to the plans of God (specifically divine placement of royalty) and thus nature. There are whole scenes where I feel sympathetic for any actress who might play Celia, for she spends so much time on stage to deliver so few lines. Yet it is her presence, indeed her lack of lines relative to Rosalind, which makes her such a wonderful sidekick. Despite the aggressive and terrible state of homeland politics, Rosalind’s dominant personality which so outshines her cousin shows Celia’s dedication to the natural way of things; despite usurpations, Celia seems to nonetheless sense that she is still second fiddle to her cousin. Her devotion is further shown by the masquerade that the two undertake, Rosalind as the male Ganymed and Celia as the female companion Aliena. Though, from a scriptwriting point of view, it can be argued that two have two women disguised as men might become unwieldy, or unwise, if one looks at the play as more or less a functioning reality then it seems Celia is missing out on a great deal of fun. But she does not protest, for as the ardent sidekick she seems more than happy to follow the lead of her superior. By protecting the natural order of things, Celia is perhaps the most manageable sidekick in the four works here explored, for she does her job quietly and happily.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Of course, for one to be a sidekick one must know one’s role--it simply goes with the territory. Such is true of York as the sidekick to the title character in Richard II, yet York’s role is slightly different than those who have been previously explored here. York’s role in many ways is to serve England, despite in some general, lackey-like way of being King Richard’s compatriot. Perhaps, in some greater sense, York’s dedication to “underprop [Richard’s] land” (II.ii.83) is a dedication to that which Richard would have wanted, or perhaps dedication the memory of the ideal Richard, before the darker times. Yet to my mind, such is not the case. Richard, sidekick though he may be, is one of those who we might call “the man behind the man,” the type of person who behind closed doors oils the creaky gears of an outwardly well-working leader. Modern words might term him a “career politician” in the best sense, if such words can fit such aged nobility. I do not mean to suggest that York is a heartless minion; it should not be forgotten that the king is his nephew. York is certainly not heartless to the changes that are transforming around him. When Northumberland calls the king merely “Richard” (III.iii.6), for the reason (which I do not particularly question) that he did it “only to be brief” (III.iii.10), York is quick to chastise the mistake despite the present and future power advantage that Northumberland enjoys:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It would beseem the Lord Northumberland / To say King Richard. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Alack the heavy day / When such a sacred king should hide his </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> head!” (III.iii.7-9) for all to recently, Northumberland is told,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “the time hath been,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Would you have been so brief with him, he would</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Have been so brief with you to shorten you,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> for taking so the head, your whole head’s length.” (III.iii.11-14)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet, despite such spirited and touching dedication, York is ultimately dedicated to the kingly institution over the specific king. Richard, despite all of his lyrical reasoning, asks the question “To do what service am I sent for hither” (IV.i.176), and it is York, his cousin, viceroy, friend, and, on some level, sidekick who tells him:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> To do that office of thine won good will</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Which tired majest did make thee offer:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> The resignation of thy state and crown</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> To Henry Bullingbrook. (IV.i.177-180)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here, he is cool, crisp, and to the point. Surely some, no dobt tainted by modern pulpish melodrama, would prefer York to stand as Mercutio and throw his arms around his beloved king and act the perfect sidekick. Yet Shakespeare, in infinite wisdom (and, no doubt, historic interests), makes York not of the stuff of comic maidens or tragic teenagers; no, he is a man who, after an age as “sidekick to the king” turns out to be a real and well-shaped man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Alas that all of Shakespeare’s wonderful sidekicks cannot be men, which is to say human. Indeed, the argument which follows might be criticized by righteous minds as being inauthentic from the start, but, alas, as stated before I can do no better than the pitiable comic circumstances that I was inundated in as a boy. To say that, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Puck is the sidekick to Oberon seems, on the surface, a flawed premise. Surely one might say that it cannot be supposed that the lowly and bumbling Puck is of the same class as Oberon! Yet to me, they are; being all fairies with powers beyond those of mortal men, the difference between, presumably, the latter born into privilege and the former being chosen to work at his side, seems minimal. (Indeed, I am reminded how the Caped Crusader was born into privilege and how the Boy Wonder was chosen to work at his side.) Differently, while if we took Oberon and Puck and made them human they clearly would be of different classes, can the wonders of the ether-world really stand to the reason of mere humans? At any rate, the sum of my words grows long. Puck is a very different kind of sidekick, one who exists to “jest to Oberon and make him smile” (II.i.44). He knows his place; he is not one to shout out and make judgments concerning his master, as Mercutio did to Romeo’s face and York did out of earshot of his king. Take as an example the very end of act II scene ii (indeed, this example is typical of many scenes shared by Puck and Oberon). The stage directions between lines 246 and 247 read “Enter Puck,” who answers a question put to him by saying “Ay, there it is” (248). Then he is silent for nearly twenty lines as Oberon talks; Puck responds “fear not, my lord! Your servant shall do so” (268), upon which the scene ends. Such is not class different, for such magical folk are so very different from us; instead, this is a sidekick in the vein of Celia, a sidekick spending time being silent around the naturally superior superior. Bumbling though he may be (his comic “negligence” (III.ii.345) and “knaveries” (III.ii.346) are without question), he is as loyal and caring as any other sidekick here explored.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> To some, the relation between Batman and Robin to these four plays might seem daring, a cunning feat of bravery against all odds, and a risky move. Yet the relation is merely the fact of decay in a spoiled culture. Apologize though I wish I could for the limitations placed upon me, I am what I am and this wordy work stands as it does, a testament to the commonalities of culture across hundreds of years. That Shakespeare and his plays are the infinite superior of Bob Kane et al and their comic books is not questioned; that the two are hardly connected is not questioned; yet my attempt has been to show a mere shadow of connection, and “if [these] shadows have offended / Think but this, and all is mended” for “this weak and idle theme, / no more yielding but a dream, / Gentles, do not reprehend” (Midsummer Night’s Dream, V.i.424-425,427-429). </span></div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-39336045903066422162013-10-10T16:20:00.000-04:002013-10-10T16:20:00.897-04:00Girl Visits Comic Con (A Cautionary Fiction)<a href="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v506/Emperor_of_Mars/TroiCake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v506/Emperor_of_Mars/TroiCake.jpg" width="320" /></a>Rachel had always been a unique sort: active in two sports in middle school and high school; great grades, and at a fantastic college to boot; but nonetheless into the nerdiest of things. For her birthday, she was adamant that she had a Counselor Troi cake--with the internal consistency of <i>Star Trek: The Next Generation</i>'s cellar peptide dream cake. (She briefly considered asking for Riker brain
shakes to pair with the dessert, but wisely decided against it.) For
Christmas in 2007, Rachel was floored to receive an autographed 8x10 of
Ernie Hudson in full Ghostbuster regalia; it was signed "Bustin makes me
feel good! --Ernie!" (No one was quite clear why the esteemed actor
signed with an exclamation point after his name, though it was generally
assumed by Rachel's parents that Mr. Hudson was simply happy to be
doing something.)<br />
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Rachel even had been to a few local comic cons as a young adult. It started with a particularly sad affair at the Manahawkin Holiday Inn, where diabetics and <i>pre</i>-diabetics sat in a room hawking old Phantom Lady comics and pewter hardly-collectable B-wings. Things picked up from there, with one highlight being seeing the original Boomer from the original Battlestar Galactica. He was older now, smelling of the unique scent of lima beans kept in three-day-old orange rinds, but Rachel didn't care. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that her pop culture interests were set in a fading past. And she loved it all.<br />
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The great goal, though, was always Comic Con--<i>the</i> Comic Con, in New York. There was, in Rachel's twenty-second year, a fortuitous set of events which finally sent her off to that great nerdatorium in the west. First, her maternal great-uncle died; though she hardly remembered the man, he had remembered her to the tune of $4,000 in his will. Second, she had just paid off her 8 year old Toyota Yaris, and thus felt unencumbered to spell the newfound money a bit frivolously. Third, the money came through, with a cosmic sort of flare, the very morning before Comic Con registration began. Rachel took at as her twin suns moment: surely there were college bills to pay, but those would have been covered by her job waiting tables at the local Shennanigans. It was time to fire into the proverbial exhaust port, and go for it.<br />
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The force indeed was with her: the four day pass was obtained, as was a moderately overpriced hotel room within walking distance. But that was not all, of course. Though every comic con of every size has inhabitants who dress in form-fitting latex and the sort (whether their bodies can handle such a challenge or not), this was the big time, and Rachel's physique was more than up to the task.<br />
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For her, the answer was easy. After all, there is only one female role model in all of geekdom who has demonstrated courage under fire, smarts, grace, wit, and beauty--one who was both noble and common at the same time. And thus there was really only one costume for Rachel to wear. She bought the best, wanting to make an impression with both her youthful exuberance for science fiction and lithe body... and after all, there was still a little of late, Great Uncle Patrick's money left.<br />
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Thus it was that, on Rachel's first day at New York Comic Con, she stepped into one of the changing rooms near Hall Q. She was a bit nervous--one rarely dresses in such a way, though she was buoyed by seeing a Jango Fett, a Captain Picard with hair, and one very impressive Poison Ivy.<br />
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Thus it was that Rachel stepped forth onto the convention floor, wearing her (supposedly) originally-conceived costume idea of Slave Leia.<br />
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"Crud!" she exclaimed, surveying the floor.<br />
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Rachel had always thought herself a unique sort, which usually she was--though unfortunately, at Comic Con, Slave Leias are a dime a dozen.<br />
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676719460019562700.post-61121082100209775092013-10-05T10:50:00.000-04:002013-10-05T11:02:01.024-04:00Sadness, Drive, Loss: On the Death of Steve Jobs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's a small <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203499704576620911395191694.html?mod=WSJ_article_forsub">article</a> on WSJ.com entitled "For Jobs's Biological Father, the Reunion Never Came." The article doesn't really have much to add beyond the headline. Yes, it has the proper journalistic details, but I nonetheless couldn't help but feel a profound sense of sadness from reading it.<br />
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It's common knowledge that Steve Jobs was born out of wedlock; that his birth parents later married and produced a sister; that Jobs grew up in the happy home of his adoptive parents; and somewhere around the time when he (briefly) went to college, his incredible drive started to meet the world at large, culminating in: Apple, his ousting, forming NeXT, buying Pixar, returning to Apple....<br />
<br />
The WSJ article isn't the first one I've read in the last two years or so about "the biological father," Abdulfattah "John" Jandali. Details are vague, or contradictory, but he started reaching out to his son in the last few years of Jobs' life, apparently via email. The Apple camp says there never was a response; Jandali says he would occasionally hear back with a thank you or other very short answers that were typical of how Jobs emailed outsiders.<br />
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I just find it all so incredibly sad. I grew up with both biological parents who have remained married; I am married and have a child. I can only imagine what it is like for an adopted child to find out that they were adopted--that someone fundamentally did not want them. Now, I know, oftentimes an adoption grows out of larger issues, and that oftentimes the mother sees giving the child up for adoption as the best choice for the welfare of the child. I don't dispute any of that--nor does it take away from the tremendous joy that parents-to-be can have when choosing to be adoptive parents.<br />
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But still... certainly there is a point where the child, at two or five or ten or twenty, feels some sense of abandonment. I grew up with a girl named Amanda, who was in the same grade and lived on the same block. She was a normal kid, like everyone on the street. Her mother (the one who adopted her; to my mind, you care for 'em, they're <i>yours</i>) was a normal mom, and the mother's boyfriend or husband was a nice Canadian guy who, whether boyfriend or husband, was always around and always nice. Nonetheless, I can distinctly remember being in class with Amanda (in Mrs. Long's 6th grade language arts class) when, in response to some sort of question about goals, Amanda said, "I want to go to Columbia to find my birth mother." There was a piece of her missing. <br />
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Was this the case with Steve Jobs? That this hole in his heart of "not being wanted" contributed to a sense of needing to prove himself against such a cold world? To be the best <u>Jobs </u><u>child </u>he could be? And to do it with a sense of purpose and destiny and drive that he seemed prepared to conquer the world?<br />
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I also think too of Mr. Jandali--a father, like me; but unlike me, one who had to say goodbye to his child. To learn, somehow, at some point, that his own child became this great captain of industry and design and inspiration... and did it all without his father. What is that sort of regret like? Enough regret for a father to reach out to a famous son whose email was common knowledge? To try and make some sort of connection, particularly once learning that the one thing he gave his son--his body, his genes--was profoundly faulty? <br />
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Yet back to Jobs: what is it like to receive that email? Did he respond to wishes for a happy birthday with "thank you" because he was firing back answers at "the public" who would email him? Did he know he was talking to his father? Did he answer out of blind kindness? Or out of the knowledge of who it was--to give his father an answer, an acknowledgement, but no more?<br />
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All questions... none of which, we can imagine, will be answered. Is there a life lesson? I don't know. It's all just a muddy, blurry picture, one of sadness, drive, and loss.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00555065923123804235noreply@blogger.com0